LIBRARY 

UNIVE.Rl'l !  'f  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


] 


In  India 

By 

G.  W.  Steevens 


Author  of  "The  Land  of  theDol- 
lar,"  "Egypt  in  1898,"  "With 
Kitchener  to  Khartum,"  etc. 


New  York 

Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 
1899 


Copyright,  1899, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

A  VICEROY'S  WELCOME.  The  Vestibule 
of  India — An  Epitome  of  Incongruity  -  I 

CHAPTER  II 

BOMBAY.  A  City  of  Contrasts— From  West 
to  East — First  Glimpse  of  the  Native — The 
Parsis — A  Beautiful  Queen  -  6 

CHAPTER  III 

LORD,  HAVE  MERCY  ON  US !  Nobody 
Cares — A  Tenement  House — A  Segregation 
Camp — The  Outlook  -  16 

CHAPTER  IV 

THE  MOST  SPORTING  COUNTRY  IN 
THE  WORLD.  H.  H.  the  Maharajah— 
The  State  of  Marwar — The  Saving  Horse  -  25 

CHAPTER  V 

A  RAJPUT  CITY.  "  Gentleman  —  Like 
Me  " — Pure  East — The  Palace  on  the  Rock  32 


vi  Contents 

PACK 

CHAPTER  VI 

THE  CAMP  OF  EXERCISE.  The  Problem 
of  the  Defile — Patrols  at  Work — The  Sham 
Fight — The  British  Army  in  Earnest — Points 
for  Study — The  Native  Officer — Difficulties 
of  the  Question  -  -  40 

CHAPTER  VII 

DELHI.  The  Kutb  Minar  — The  Jumma 
Musjid — The  Palace — Incongruous  India  -  56 

CHAPTER   VIII 

CALCUTTA.  "The  Gentlemen  at  Fort 
William  " — The  Maidan — The  Anglo-Indian  : 
New  Style — On  the  Hughli — The  Bengali : 
His  Legs  -  -  64 

CHAPTER  IX 

ON  NATIVE  SELF-GOVERNMENT.     A 

Discreditable  Record — The   Calcutta  Munic- 
ipal   Bill— "The    Rights    of  the   People" 
Government's    Blunder — The    Bated    Chair- 
man— Expenditure    and    Revenue — The  Un- 
educated B.A.  -     75 

CHAPTER  X 

THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION.  The  Com- 
plete Babu  —  Cram  —  Superfluous  B.A.'s — 
From  "The  National  Magazine  " — The  Prac- 
tical Use  of  Learning  -  90 


Contents  vii 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MAHARAJAH  BAHADUR.  The 
Permanent  Settlement — The  Ganges  and 
Behar — His  Retinue — His  Rich  Relations — 
What  do  We  Know?  -  100 

CHAPTER  XII 

DARJILING.  The  D.  H.  R.— The  World  of 
Plants — The  Himalayas  -  no 

CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  VILLAGERS.     Hungry  and  Helpless— 
The  Bunnia — A  Sugar-Mill — The  Complaints 
—The  Indian  Evening  -  119 

CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  CITY  OF  SHAH  JEHAN.    The  Pearl 
Mosque — The   Arabian   Nights   Alive — The 
Uncrowned  Prisoner — Every  Point  Perfection 
-The  Fit  Close       -  -  131 

CHAPTER  XV 

THE  RULERS  OF  INDIA.  Parliament  and 
India — The  Legislative  Council — The  Mean- 
ing of  Competitive  Examinations  -  -  141 

CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  DISTRICT  OFFICER.  The  Sad 
Case  of  Mukkan  Singh — Points  for  Decision 
— Further  Points  —  The  Travelling  Court- 
House — Omnipotent  at  Thirty  -  148 


viii  Contents 


CHAPTER  XVII 

JUSTICE.  The  Witnesses— A  Conflict  of 
Evidence — The  Art  of  Perjury — Chutni  and 
Meat  -  159 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

PROVIDENCE    AND    THE    PARLOUR  ' 
GAME.     Records — The  Village  Accountant 
— Reports — The  Absent  Presence     -  -  167 

CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   FOREST   OFFICER.     The  Elephant 
— A  Solitary  Exile — The  Plan  and  the  Work 
—The  Ranger  -  175 

CHAPTER  XX 

THE  CANAL.  The  Engineer— A  Triumph 
of  Engineering — Public  Works  That  Pay — 
Glug-Glug  -  1 84 

CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SIKHS.  Short  Rule, 
Long  Battles — Respectable  India — A  Miracle 
— Jewels  and  Dirt  -  -  192 

CHAPTER  XXII 

ON  THE  BORDER.  Peshawar  City— Wax- 
cloth—The  Last  of  His  Family— The  Dutiful 
Son  -  -  -  -  -  -  201 


Contents  ix 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  KHYBER.  The  Meeting  Caravans— 
The  Footprints  of  War — The  Excitements  of 
Sentry-Go — The  Frontier  Feeling  -  -  21 

CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  MALAKAND.  The  Home  of  the 
Guides — A  Box  of  Soldiers  on  a  Rockery — 
Fort  Chakdara — The  Sons  of  Joseph  -  -  220 

CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  FRONTIER  QUESTION.  Bravery 
or  Despair — The  Afridis — Russia — Britain's 
Choice  -  -  228 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

OF  RAJAHS.  A  Living  Ghost— A  Stagger- 
ing Compliment — The  Resident  Administra- 
tor— The  Sporting  Rajah  -  -  236 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  COMPLETE  GLOBE  TROTTER. 
The  Decline  of  the  Hotel — The  Indian  Train 
— A  Workmanlike  Service — The  Blessings  of 
Friendship  -  -  244 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    HAPPY   HOMES  OF  INDIA.     The 

Compound — Twenty-eight  Servants  Apiece — 
The  Honour  of  the  Servant — A  Double 
Exile  ~  253 


Contents 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  CASE  OF  REBELLIOUS  POONA. 
The  Empire  of  the  Marathas — The  Malcon- 
tent— A  Religion  Which  is  a  Life — How  the 
Native  Dies  -  -  262 

CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  JAIL.  The  Religion  of  Theft— Arcadia 
— At  Jubilee  Time — Opium  on  the  Brain  -  272 

CHAPTER  XXXI 

HYDERABAD,  DEKHAN.  A  Wealthy  Ter- 
ritory— Its  Threshold — Golconda — A  Wed- 
ding -  281 

CHAPTER  XXXII 

MADRAS.  A  Spacious  City— The  East  Coast 
Railway — The  Southern  Brahman — The  Red- 
Rock  of  India  -  290 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  SALT-PANS.  Hard  Work  and  Loneli- 
ness— A  Brine-Watered  Farm — An  Honest 
Administration — Guarding  the  Guardians  -  298 

CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  GREAT  PAGODAS.  Tanjore— The 
Sublime  and  the  Ridiculous — Madura  -  -  306 


Contents  xi 

PACK 

CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  RUPEE.  Foreign  Trade  and  Foreign 
Debt — The  Fall  in  Silver — Salaries  in  India — 
The  Export  Trade — The  Closing  of  the 
Mints — The  Committee's  Plan  -  313 

CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE   ARMY  AND  MUTINY.     The  New 

Conditions — Split  Regiments — Trust  the  Na- 
tive ! — Imperial  Service  Troops  -  326 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  IMPERIAL  BABU.  The  Decline  of 
British  Influence — Absence  and  Red-Tape — 
The  "  Europe-Returned "  -  -  335 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  LAND  OF  IRONIES.  British  Un- 
selfishness— The  Farce  or  Justice — The 
Curse  of  Peace — The  Barrier  of  Race  -  343 


IN  INDIA 


A  VICEROY'S  WELCOME 

THE  thud  of  three  guns,  dull  in  the  lazy  air,  told 
the  passengers  of  the  P.  and  O.  Company's  "Arabia" 
that  they  were  at  the  door  of  India. 

From  the  steamer  the  sights  of  the  shore  were 
muffled,  like  its  sounds,  in  the  breathless  haze  that 
expects  the  sun.  We  lay  on  still,  colourless  water 
in  a  channel.  To  port  were  shadows  of  ships,  and 
presently,  behind  them,  a  thicker  bank  of  grey  where- 
from  white  faces  of  ghostly  buildings  shone  without 
lustre.  But  to  starboard  the  mainland  of  India  raised 
itself  on  its  elbow  against  a  horizon  that  every  minute 
grew  rosier.  Broad  belts  of  black  and  pink  fired 
and  fused  into  liquid  carmine ;  the  elbows  turned 
from  grey  to  black,  and  the  water  began  to  stir 
and  laugh  over  a  mile  of  shining  dimples.  India 
was  awake. 

A  glance  back  from  the  launch  showed  the  "Arabia" 
at  the  very  moment  of  awakening.  Along  the  dark 

i 


A  Viceroy's  Welcome 

hull  three  tiers  of  sleepy  yellow  port-holes  blinked  at 
the  shadowed  water ;  above,  every  point  and  spar  and 
rope  were  picked  out  in  the  intensest  black  against  the 
crimson  sky.  The  flags,  with  which  she  was  dressed 
from  prow  to  rail,  hung  solemnly  motionless.  Hugely 
graceful,  the  union  of  power  and  fineness,  revealing 
unsuspected  curves  and  angles,  she  had  kept  the  ful- 
ness of  her  beauties,  coquettishly,  until  the  moment  of 
good-bye. 

The  other  ships,  as  we  stole  past  them,  turned  in 
like  manner  from  film  to  the  clearest  silhouette — the 
heavy-hulled  trooper,  the  low  turret-guardship  with 
awnings  from  stem  to  stern  like  turtle-decks,  the 
slim  cruiser,  and  the  slips  of  torpedo-boats.  Higher 
up  lay  black  and  red  cargo-boats ;  lower  down,  white- 
winged  yachts.  On  the  nearing  shore  the  dim  shapes 
of  buildings  cleared,  separated,  and  combined  into  a 
tall,  white-limbed  city,  warming  and  blushing  like  a 
bride.  The  launch  stopped  at  a  pier  beneath  a  white 
and  amber  pavilion.  Then  suddenly  the  sun  shot  up 
behind  the  mainland ;  welcoming  reflections  sprang 
everywhere  to  meet  him ;  the  world  pulsed  with 
colour.  And  I  was  standing  in  India. 

It  was  good  luck  for  the  prying  stranger  to  land  at 
Bombay  off  the  same  boat  as  a  new  Viceroy.  The 
splendours  which  otherwise  must  have  been  sought 
out  with  diligence  and  found  in  detail  came  there  to 
meet  the  landing  and  combined  themselves.  The 
vestibule  of  India  was  swept  and  garnished.  The 

2 


A  Viceroy's  Welcome 

pavilion  that  ushered  us  in  was  spread  partly  on 
Venetian  masts,  partly  on  living  trees  ;  but  their  trunks 
were  wrapped  round  with  white  and  amber  also,  lest 
anything  dirty  should  smirch  the  new  Viceroy's  gaze. 
Down  the  middle  ran  a  broad  aisle;  on  each  side  of 
it  a  battalion  of  chairs ;  at  the  top,  above  the  water, 
was  a  clear  space  for  the  most  notable  people,  and  a 
triumphal  arch  in  the  shape  of  a  tower.  A  hedge  of 
shrubs  round  the  whole  lent  it  the  air  of  a  flower- 
show.  Outside  these  again  was  a  hedge  of  native  po- 
lice— little,  sturdy,  brown  men  in  navy  blue,  with 
bare  legs,  and  sandals,  and  bright  yellow  caps.  At  the 
entrance  on  the  inland  side  were  British  military  police 
in  white,  regulating  the  traffic. 

I  looked  down  the  broad  avenue  that  led  into  Bom- 
bay— a  vista  of  white,  shining  palaces  set  in  green, 
tier  and  gable  and  turret  climbing  skywards  out  of 
massed  trees.  But  before  there  was  time  to  do  more 
than  look,  a  couple  of  companies  of  British  infantry, 
cool  to  the  eye  in  their  white  uniforms,  marched  up, 
stiffened  into  line,  and  grounded  arms  with  a  rattle 
along  one  side  of  the  pavilion.  Directly  on  that  ar- 
rived the  rulers  of  Bombay. 

They  made  a  strange  blending  of  splendour  and 
shabbiness.  Clear-skinned  men  and  bright-eyed 
women  drove  up  in  victorias  that  showed  more  dust 
than  paint;  a  servant  in  gorgeous  livery  was  on  the 
box,  and  the  stuffing  was  coming  out  of  the  horse's 
collar.  The  white  men  and  women  wore  white,  as 

3 


A  Viceroy's  Welcome 

befitted  the  freshness  of  the  golden  morning;  even 
generals  and  colonels  showed  no  other  colour  than 
the  ribbons  on  their  breasts.  The  dark  blue  and 
gold  of  naval  uniforms  and  court  dress,  the  epaulettes 
of  the  very  consuls,  looked  dull  in  the  shimmer  of 
the  sun.  But  the  rich  natives  paid  for  all.  They 
shone  in  the  gathering  crowd  like  rainbows.  There 
were  women  in  purple  and  yellow-green  draperies, 
servants  in  flaming  scarlet,  masters  ablaze  with  bul- 
lion and  jewels.  Nothing  was  too  resplendent  for 
their  modesty  or  too  incongruous  for  their  taste.  A 
black  gown  like  a  clergyman's,  a  spectacled  face 
under  a  black  oilcloth  cap — its  shape  like  two  hats, 
one  balanced  upside  down  on  top  of  the  other — only 
threw  up  the  neighbouring  butterfly  in  a  peaked 
turban  of  vermilion  and  gold,  a  ring  in  his  ear  with 
a  bloated  bunch  of  pearls  and  emeralds,  strings  of 
pearls  round  his  neck,  and  a  gold-embroidered  muslin 
blouse  which  died  away — alas  ! — below  the  waist  into 
shrunken  pyjamas,  no  socks,  and  broken  elastic-sided 
boots,  with  frayed  tabs  flapping  moodily  behind  him. 
Beside  this  vision  of  radiance  you  could  hardly  see 
the  puff-cheeked,  moist-eyed  gentleman  in  a  frock- 
coat  and  a  deerstalker;  and  the  eagle-nosed  yellow 
youth  in  reach-me-down  blue-striped  flannels  was 
barely  saved  from  extinction  by  the  green  and  crim- 
son embroidery  on  his  purple  velvet  smoking-cap. 
Every  race,  every  creed,  every  colour,  every  style — 
the  rajah  with  his  diamonds  and  the  thin-legged 

4 


A  Viceroy's  Welcome 

sweeper  outside  in  the  street — they  grouped  them- 
selves to  present  on  the  threshold  of  India  a  living 
epitome  of  the  hundred-headed  incongruities  that 
swarm  within. 

Boom  !  came  the  first  gun  from  the  white  warship, 
the  first  of  thirty-one.  A  launch  flickered  across  the 
dazzling  water.  Along  the  parapet  glided  a  funnel 
and  the  point  of  a  flagstaff.  The  uniforms  and  court 
suits  and  academic  gowns  clustered  at  the  head  of  the 
steps.  They  stood  for  a  minute,  two,  three,  in  the 
bunched  but  shifting  group  that  means  greeting  and 
introduction,  then  broke.  "  God  Save  the  Queen  !  " 
crashed  the  band ;  all  stood  uncovered ;  and  the  new 
Viceroy  stepped  serenely  into  his  government.  A 
slow  procession  along  the  aisle ;  a  pause  and  a  silence 
which  hinted  that  the  Corporation  of  Bombay  was 
delivering  an  address ;  a  few  clear-cut  sentences  of 
reply ;  clapping ;  a  grey  hat  bowing  from  a  carriage ; 
the  scrunch  of  wheels ;  red-and-white  lance-pennons 
whirling  into  column — and  the  first  glimpse  of  India 
shifts  and  breaks  like  a  kaleidoscope  and  leaves  its 
first  city  naked  to  curiosity. 


II 

BOMBAY 

THE  first  sight  of  India  is  amazing,  entrancing, 
stupefying.  Of  other  countries  you  become  aware 
gradually  :  Italy  leads  up  to  the  Levant,  and  Egypt 
passes  you  on  insensibly  to  the  desert.  Landed  in 
Bombay,  you  have  strayed  into  a  most  elaborate  dream, 
infinite  in  variety,  spinning  with  complexity,  a  gallery 
of  strange  faces,  a  buzz  of  strange  voices,  a  rainbow 
of  strange  colours,  a  garden  of  strange  growths,  a  book 
of  strange  questions,  a  pantheon  of  strange  gods. 
Different  beasts  and  birds  in  the  street,  different 
clothes  to  wear,  different  meal-times,  and  different 
food — the  very  commonest  things  are  altered.  You 
begin  a  new  life  in  a  new  world. 

It  takes  time  to  come  to  yourself.  At  first  every- 
thing is  so  noticeable  that  you  notice  nothing.  You 
pin  your  eyes  to  the  little  fawn-coloured,  satin- 
skinned,  humped  oxen  in  the  carts,  to  the  blue  crows 
that  dance  and  spar  in  the  gutters.  They  are  the 
very  commonest  things  in  India,  but  just  because 
they  are  common  bullocks — yet  with  humps  ! — com- 
mon crows — yet  blue  ! — their  fascination  is  enthrall- 
ing. The  white  ducks  you  wear  all  day  are  like  a 

6 


Bombay 

girl's  first  court  dress,  and  you  sit  down  to  breakfast 
at  eleven  off"  a  fish  called  pomphlet  with  the  sensa- 
tions of  a  Gulliver. 

When  things  begin  to  come  sorted  and  sifted, 
Bombay  reveals  itself  as  a  city  of  monstrous  con- 
trasts. Along  the  sea-front  one  splendid  public 
building  follows  another — variegated  stone  facades 
with  arch  and  colonnade,  cupola  and  pinnacle  and 
statuary.  At  their  feet  huddle  flimsy  huts  of  mat- 
ting, thatched  with  leaves,  which  a  day's  rain  would 
reduce  to  mud  and  pulp.  You  sit  in  a  marble-paved 
club,  vast  and  airy  as  a  Roman  atrium,  and  look  out 
over  gardens  of  heavy  red  and  violet  flowers  towards 
choking  alleys  where  half-naked  idolaters  herd  by 
families  together  in  open-fronted  rooms,  and  filth 
runs  down  gullies  to  fester  in  the  sunken  street.  In 
this  quarter  you  may  see  the  weaver  twirling  his 
green  and  amber  wool  on  a  hand-loom — a  skeleton 
so  simple  and  fragile  that  a  kick  would  make  sticks  of 
it ;  go  to  the  street  corner,  and  you  see  black  smoke 
belch  from  a  hundred  roaring  mills,  whose  competi- 
tion cuts  the  throat  of  all  the  world.  In  the  large 
open  spaces  Parsis  bowl  each  other  under-hand  full- 
pitches  and  cry,  "  Tank  you,  tank  you,"  after  the 
ball ;  by  the  rail  squats  a  Hindu,  who  would  like,  if 
only  the  law  would  let  him,  to  marry  babies  and  burn 
widows. 

Yet,  for  all  its  incongruities,  Bombay  never  will 
have  you  forget  that  it  is  a  great  city.  If  it  had 

7 


Bombay 

no  mills  it  would  be  renowned  for  its  port ;  if  it 
had  neither  it  would  be  famous  for  its  beauty.  Its 
physical  configuration  is  something  like  that  of  New 
York.  Bombay  lies  at  the  southern  end  of  a  long 
narrow  island ;  its  oldest  part,  the  Fort,  is  toward 
the  southernmost  extremity.  Here  are  the  landing- 
piers,  the  public  buildings,  the  newspapers,  the  prin- 
cipal business  centres.  Next  comes  the  native  city ; 
and  the  fashionable  quarter  for  residence  once  lay 
northward  where  the  Byculla  Club,  the  best  in  Bom- 
bay, still  marks  its  site.  But  flowing  business,  as  in 
New  York,  has  risen  and  surged  over  the  city ;  it  has 
washed  the  native  quarter  northward,  and  the  Club 
now  stands  an  almost  solitary  land-mark  among  cot- 
ton-mill chimneys  and  teeming  native  tenements. 
The  Europeans,  with  the  ever-multiplying  class  of 
rich  natives,  now  live  further  westward  on  the  Ridge 
or  on  Malabar  Hill,  which,  turning  south  to  face 
the  old  town,  forms  the  western  horn  of  Back  Bay. 
From  the  narrowness  of  the  original  city,  and  the 
four-miles'  drive  between  it  and  the  Ridge,  it  follows 
that  rents  are  high  and  land  continually  more  valuable; 
and  from  that  follows  that  the  native  town  is  not  one- 
or  two-storeyed  as  elsewhere  in  India,  but  laid  out  in 
great  tenement  blocks,  which  lend  themselves  to 
picturesqueness  and  to  plague. 

So  that  in  the  drive  from  the  Apollo  Bunder  to 
Malabar  Point,  all  India  is  unfolded  in  one  panorama. 
First  the  business  houses  and  the  great  buildings — 

8 


Bombay 

those  the  richest,  these  the  stateliest  in  India,  and 
challenging  comparison  with  almost  any  city  in  the 
world.  Every  variation  of  design  is  theirs,  but  they 
find  a  link  of  uniformity  in  the  red-brown  colours 
common  to  most,  and  in  the  oriental  profusion  of 
ornament.  First  comes  the  Venetian  Secretariat, 
then  the  Gothic  University  Library  and  the  French 
University  Hall ;  between  them  the  great  Clock 
Tower,  which  peals  forth  hymn-tunes  on  Sunday, 
and  on  week-days  "  God  Save  the  Queen !  "  and 
"  Home,  Sweet  Home."  The  white-pinnacled  Law 
Courts  follow  in  Early  English,  then  the  Post  and 
Telegraph  Offices  in  Miscellaneous  Gothic.  But  the 
jewel  of  Bombay  is  the  Victoria  Railway  Station,  a 
vast  domed  mass  of  stone  fretted  with  point  and 
column  and  statuary.  Between  them  all  you  catch 
vistas  of  green  mead  and  shrubbery,  purple-belled 
creepers,  scarlet-starred  shrubs.  The  whole  has  its 
feet  in  bowers  of  succulent  green  and  its  elbows  on 
shining-leaved  banyan-trees.  A  proud  and  comely 
city,  you  say,  the  Briton  feels  himself  a  greater  man 
for  his  first  sight  of  Bombay. 

Then  suddenly  the  magician  turns  his  ring  and  new 
has  become  old,  plain  is  coloured,  solid  is  tumbled 
down,  the  West  has  been  swallowed  up  utterly  by 
the  East.  Cross  but  one  street  and  you  are  plunged 
in  the  native  town.  In  your  nostrils,  is  the  smell  of 
the  East,  dear  and  never  to  be  forgotten  :  rapturously 
you  snuff  that  blending  of  incense  and  spices  and 

9 


Bombay 

garlic,  and  sugar  and  goats  and  dung.  The  jutting 
houses  close  in  over  you.  The  decoration  of  Bombay 
henceforth  is  its  people.  The  windows  are  frames  for 
women,  the  streets  become  wedges  of  men.  Under 
the  quaint  wooden  sun-hoods  that  push  out  over  the 
serried  windows  of  the  lodging-houses,  along  the 
rickety  paintless  balconies  and  verandahs,  all  over  the 
tottering  roofs — only  the  shabbiness  of  the  dust  and 
dirty  plaster  relieves  the  gorgeousness  of  one  of  the 
most  astounding  collections  of  human  animals  in  the 
world.  Forty  languages,  it  is  said,  are  habitually 
spoken  in  its  bazaars.  That,  to  him  who  understands 
no  word  of  any  of  them,  is  more  curious  than  inter- 
esting. But  then  every  race  has  its  own  costume;  so 
that  the  streets  of  Bombay  are  a  tulip-garden  of 
vermilion  turbans  and  crimson,  orange  and  flame 
colour,  of  men  in  blue  and  brown  and  emerald 
waistcoats,  women  in  cherry-coloured  satin  drawers, 
or  mantles,  drawn  from  the  head  across  the  bosom 
to  the  hip,  of  blazing  purple  or  green  that  shines  like 
a  grasshopper.  You  must  go  to  India  to  see  such 
dyes.  They  are  the  very  children  of  the  sun,  and 
seem  to  shine  with  an  unreflected  radiance  of  their 
own.  If  you  check  your  eye  and  ask  your  mind  for 
the  master-colour  in  the  crowd,  it  is  white — white 
bordered  with  brown  or  fawn  or  amber  legs.  But 
when  you  forget  that  and  let  the  eye  go  again,  the 
scarlets  and  yellows  and  shining  greens — each  hue 
alive  and  quivering  passionately  like  the  tropical  sun 

10 


Bombay 

at  midday — fill  and  dazzle  it  anew  :  in  the  gilding 
light  the  very  arms  and  legs  show  like  bronze  or 
amber  or  the  bloom  on  ripe  damsons.  You  are  walk- 
ing in  a  flaring  sunset,  and  come  out  of  it  blinking. 

Look  under  the  turbans.  At  first  all  natives  look 
alike,  but  soon  you  begin  to  mark  distinctions  of  dress 
and  even  of  type.  The  first  you  will  pick  out  is  the 
Arab  horse-dealer.  His  long  robe  and  hood,  bound 
round  with  cords  and  tufts  of  camel's  hair,  mark  him 
off  from  the  wisp-clothed  native  of  India.  The  Arab 
gives  you  the  others  in  focus.  He  is  not  much 
accounted  by  those  who  know  him ;  yet,  compared 
with  the  Indian,  his  mien  is  high,  his  movements  free 
and  dignified,  his  features  strongly  cut  and  resolute. 
The  Bagdad  Jew  is  hardly  a  type  of  lofty  manhood, 
but  under  his  figured  turban  and  full-tasselled  fez  his 
face  looks  gravely  wise.  The  blue-bloused  Afghan  is 
a  savage  frankly,  but  a  strong  man  also.  By  the  side 
of  any  one  of  them  the  down-country  native  of  Bom- 
bay is  poor  and  weak  and  insignificant.  He  looks  as 
if  you  could  break  him  across  your  knee.  His  form- 
less features  express  nothing ;  his  eyes  have  the  shin- 
ing meekness,  but  not  the  benevolence,  of  the  cow's ; 
he  moves  slowly  and  without  snap,  like  a  sick  man. 
He  seldom  speaks,  and  when  he  does  his  voice  is 
small.  Sometimes  he  smiles  faintly — laughs  never. 

To  the  nervelessness  of  the  Bombay  natives  one 
race  furnishes  an  exception — the  Parsi.  The  Parsi, 
as  his  name  tells  you,  comes  from  Persia,  whence  he 

ii 


Bombay 

was  persecuted  for  worshipping  fire.  Persecuted  races 
develop  their  own  virtues  and  their  own  aptitudes ; 
and  now,  under  the  British  peace,  the  Parsi  flourishes 
exceedingly.  He  is  the  Jew  of  the  East — leaves  other 
people  to  make  things  while  he  makes  money.  Bank- 
ing, agency,  commission,  brokerage,  middleman's 
profits  are  the  Parsi's  Golconda.  He  has  perceived 
the  advantages  wherewith  a  European  education 
equips  him  for  these  pursuits,  and  has  sedulously 
educated  himself  into  the  most  European  of  all 
Asiatics.  He  walks  out  with  his  wife — a  refined- 
looking  creature  in  a  pale  pink  or  lemon-yellow 
gown,  with  a  pea-green,  crimson-edged  shawl  passed 
over  her  head — to  hear  the  band  at  sunset,  and  talks 
to  her  as  a  man  might  talk  to  his  friend.  He  takes  a 
holiday  at  Darjiling  in  the  starving  frost,  and  professes 
himself  much  braced  by  it.  And  when  the  young 
Parsi  speaks  of "  going  home,"  he  means  not  Persia 
— where  he  would  not  be  received  with  enthusiasm — 
but  England. 

You  can  see  the  change  in  the  dress  of  two  genera- 
tions. The  elderly  Parsi  wears  his  shirt  outside  his 
cerise  trousers,  and  on  his  head  a  weird  plum-colour 
structure,  like  a  Siamese-twin  of  a  hat  that  you  can 
put  on  either  way  up.  The  young  Parsi  wears,  as  a 
rule,  a  short  frock-coat  buttoned  over  white  duck 
trousers,  and  on  his  head  a  linoleum  helmet,  some- 
thing between  a  Prussian  grenadier's  and  a  fly-paper 
man's.  He  is  shocked  at  our  denial  of  representa- 

12 


Bombay 

tive  institutions  to  India,  conceiving  that  if  they  were 
granted  he  would  be  a  representative,  and  forgetting 
that,  we  once  gone,  the  Mussulmans  would  straight- 
way push  him  into  the  sea  and  take  his  rupees  unto 
themselves. 

For  the  Parsi's  rupees  are  very  many.  Sir 
Jamshidji  Jijibhoy,  the  richest,  is  worth  about  five 
millions  sterling.  Many  others  hasten  in  his  foot- 
steps. So  greenly  flourish  the  Parsis  that  they  have 
nearly  filled  up  all  the  eligible  sites  on  the  Ridge,  the 
best  part  of  Bombay,  and  soon  there  will  be  no  place 
for  the  Briton.  While  the  rich  Parsi  lives  in  an  airy 
bungalow,  English  ladies  have  to  hire  land  and  live 
thereon  in  tents. 

Bombay  is  the  extremest  case  of  a  commonplace 
but  irritating  evil  which  is  felt  in  Calcutta  also,  and 
will  in  time  be  felt,  unless  it  be  provided  against,  in 
all  the  great  Indian  cities.  The  British  residents, 
supposed  to  be  lords  of  the  city,  have  no  place  to 
live  in.  Our  rule  has  enriched  the  natives  till  they 
outbid  us  for  the  luxuries  and  even  the  necessities  of 
life.  The  pinch  has  come  first  in  Bombay,  partly  be- 
cause the  Parsis  have  been  quicker  and  abler  than 
other  races  in  taking  advantage  of  the  peace  and  in- 
dustrial facilities  we  have  afforded,  partly  because  the 
city,  lying  on  a  narrow  island,  can  only  extend  in  one 
direction.  Nobody  grudges  the  Parsi  the  fruits  of  his 
level-headed  enterprise.  But  he  is  not  always  a 
pleasant  neighbour  to  the  fastidious  eyes  and  ears  and 


Bombay 

nose  of  the  European — though,  indeed,  things  have 
now  gone  so  far  that  the  European  would  put  up  with 
that  in  return  for  a  possible  bungalow,  and  cannot  get 
it.  The  best  part  of  Bombay  is  the  Ridge  and  Mala- 
bar Hill,  and  here  house  after  house  is  passing  into 
native  occupancy.  The  result  is  that  young  and 
slenderly  paid  Europeans — and  even  many  married 
men — have  literally  nowhere  to  live.  The  chambers 
in  the  clubs  are  all  full,  and  so,  in  the  season,  are  the 
comfortless  hotels.  At  an  exorbitant  rate  they  hire 
land  to  pitch  tents  on ;  and  even  from  this  they  may 
be  driven  at  the  will  of  the  native  owner.  The 
remedy  for  this  state  of  things  is  to  mark  off  reserva- 
tions in  all  large  cities  to  be  occupied  by  Europeans 
alone.  It  should  be  done  at  once,  for  every  year 
makes  it  more  difficult  and  expensive. 

It  must  be  said  that  if  the  Parsi  knows  how  to  get, 
he  knows  also  how  to  give.  Every  Parsi  educational 
institution  or  charity,  for  men  or  women,  is  endowed 
beyond  the  dreams  of  London  hospitals.  One  cotton- 
spinner  is  said  to  have  given  .£200,000  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Bombay ;  many  others  are  hardly  less 
munificent.  To  them,  to  the  Bagdad-Jewish  Sassons 
and — last,  but  after  all  essential  to  the  prosperity  of 
the  others — to  the  British  Government,  Bombay  owes 
the  stately  public  buildings,  the  spacious  open  places 
that  give  her  the  grand  air  above  almost  every  city  of 
the  West. 

For  Bombay  is  indeed  a  queen  among  cities.     Drive 


Bombay 

down  from  the  Ridge  by  the  white,  flooding  moon- 
light, beneath  fleshy  green  leaves  as  huge  and  flowers 
as  languorously  gorgeous  as  in  any  fairy  tale, — be- 
neath hundred-fingered  fronds  of  palm  and  wax- 
foliaged  banyans  that  feel  for  earth  with  roots  hang- 
ing from  their  branches;  past  tall,  broad-shouldered 
architecture  rising  above  these,  Western  in  its  design, 
Eastern  in  the  profusion  of  its  embellishment ;  look- 
ing always  out  to  the  blue-veiled  bay  with  the  golden 
lights  on  its  horns.  Then  think  of  the  factory  smoke, 
the  numberless  bales  of  cotton,  the  hives  of  coolies, 
the  panting  steamers  in  the  harbour,  the  grim-eyed 
batteries,  and  the  white  warships.  Bombay  is  a 
beautiful  queen  in  silver  armour  and  a  girdle  of  gold. 


Ill 

LORD,  HAVE  MERCY  ON  US ! 

"  HERE-we-have-some-ve-ry-char-act-er-is-tic-and- 
typ-i-cal-tem-per-a-ture-charts,"  said  the  doctor.  A 
Parsi  speaks  English  with  a  staccato  that  accents 
every  syllable  alike.  But  for  that  you  would  hardly 
have  distinguished  the  doctor,  in  his  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  well-cut  flannel  suit,  and  grey  pith  helmet, 
from  a  swarthy  European.  The  truth  is  that  he  has 
never  been  in  Europe  at  all ;  yet  he  is  one  of  the  best- 
known  authorities  on  bubonic  plague  in  the  world. 

Down  the  long,  light,  and  airy  ward — plague  and 
light  and  air  cannot  live  together — was  a  double  row 
of  some  thirty  beds,  covered  with  violet  blankets. 
From  under  each  protruded  a  dark,  small,  close- 
cropped  head.  Some  lay  quite  still  with  eyes  tight 
shut ;  some  stared  up  at  the  pointed  roof  with  eyes 
moist  and  shining;  one  boy  grinned  almost  merrily. 
All  were  sick  of  the  plague ;  on  statistics  it  was  to 
be  expected  that  three  out  of  every  four  would  die  in 
the  next  few  hours. 

At  its  first  onset,  two  years  ago,  plague  killed  its 
two  hundred  and  forty  a-day  ;  now  it  has  sunk  to  fifty 
a-day,  but  it  goes  on  steadily.  Bombay  has  resigned 

16 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us ! 

herself  to  another  four  or  five  years  of  it — which 
means,  at  the  present  rate,  that  one-tenth  of  her  popu- 
lation will  die  of  it  between  now  and  1904. 

Then  what  is  to  be  done  ?  asks  the  practical  Eng- 
lishman. Ask  the  uneducated  native,  and  he  will  say 
that  the  white  Empress  is  angry  because  some  black- 
guards defaced  her  statue  two  years  ago ;  now  that  it 
is  restored  again  things  may  be  expected  to  go  better. 
Ask  the  educated  native,  and  he  will  placidly  reply, 
"  Nothing."  Let  it  spend  itself,  let  it  become 
endemic,  says  he,  finding  much  consolation  in  the 
Greek  word.  Human  life  has  always  been  abundant 
and  cheap  in  India.  Here  is  the  spectacle  of  a  great 
city  where  one  disease  has  killed  its  thousands  in  two 
years,  and  is  killing  its  hundreds  now  every  week; 
and  nobody  cares.  White  man  and  brown  alike  ac- 
cept it  as  a  new  circumstance  of  their  existence,  and 
that  is  all. 

Yet  not  quite  all,  nor  is  it  quite  just  to  say  that 
nobody  cares.  It  seemed  that  at  present  all  that  can 
be  done,  short  of  pulling  down  Bombay,  was  being 
done,  and — it  seemed  for  the  moment — not  wholly  in 
vain.  The  municipality  had  partly  recovered  from 
the  paralysis  which  overtook  it  at  the  enemy's  first 
attack ;  it  had  come  back  to  Bombay  again,  even  the 
most  enlightened  native  no  longer  feeling  his  life  in 
danger.  The  military  visitations  had  ceased.  They 
frightened  the  natives.  In  one  case,  I  was  told,  when 
a  couple  of  naval  officers,  with  bluejackets  and  native 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us ! 

infantry,  arrived  to  inspect  a  large  tenement  house, 
they  found  that  every  one  of  the  three  hundred  ten- 
ants had  bolted  in  the  night — leaving  only  two  men  to 
die  alone  of  plague — and  had  spread  themselves  to 
sow  contagion  all  over  the  quarter.  Now  the  munic- 
ipality does  what  is  to  be  done,  especially  the  few 
British  members  of  it. 

I  had  the  luck  to  fall  in  with  men  who  could 
show  me  the  whole  process,  from  cause  to  cure — or 
death.  The  cause  was  simple  enough  :  two  minutes 
in  the  native  quarter,  and  you  saw  and  smelt  and 
tasted  it.  The  cause  is  sheer  piggery,  dirt  and  dark- 
ness, foul  air  and  rabbit-warren  overcrowding.  The 
huge  houses,  with  their  ranks  of  windows,  their  worn 
plaster  and  scratched,  rickety  shutters,  have  slum 
written  all  over  them  in  a  universal  language;  but  for 
wooden  hoods  projecting  like  gargoyles  to  shade  some 
of  the  windows,  they  might  be  in  Edinburgh  or 
Naples. 

But  walk  in,  and  what  you  see  surpasses  everything 
European.  On  stamped  earth  floors,  between  bare 
walls,  by  the  dimness  of  one  tiny  window,  you  see 
shapes  squatting  like  monkeys.  They  stir,  lithe  but 
always  languid,  and  presently  you  see  that  they  are 
human.  Babies,  naked  children,  young  women  and 
youths,  mothers  and  fathers,  shrivelled  grandsires  and 
grand-dams — whole  families  stifle  together  in  the 
thick  darkness,  breed,  and  take  in  lodgers.  In  the 
room,  where  there  is  hardly  space  to  move,  they  sleep 

18 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us ! 

and  work  at  trades,  and  cook  their  food  with  pungent 
cakes  of  cow-dung.  Because  January  is  cold  to 
their  bare  limbs,  they  shut  doors  and  windows,  to  fug 
and  fester  worse.  The  lower  rooms  are  worn  down 
beneath  the  level  of  the  street  and  of  the  drains  ;  the 
upper  are  holes  beneath  the  sloping  roof,  where  a  man 
cannot  stand  upright.  On  the  storeys  between  these 
are  dens  lighted  only  from  the  dark  corridor.  You 
look  into  them,  and  at  first  see  no  more  than  a  feeble 
wick  fluttering  in  a  night-glass  ;  then  moist  eyes  shine 
at  you  out  of  the  darkness,  and  again  two,  four,  six, 
ten  men  and  women  are  sitting  motionless  against  the 
wall.  They  neither  speak  nor  stir — just  sit  and  ripen 
for  pestilence. 

On  the  door-jamb  of  this  house  are  a  dozen  red 
marks — dates  with  a  line  round  them,  in  some  semi- 
circular, in  others  a  complete  circle.  Each  means  a 
case  of  plague — the  full  circles  a  death,  the  halves  a 
removal  to  hospital.  For  your  own  part  you  wonder 
that  anybody  in  the  poisonous  lair  is  left  alive. 

Improvement  is  coming — tardy  and  partial,  still  an 
improvement  on  the  worst.  At  this  house  we  fell  in 
with  an  English  gentleman,  a  man  of  business  and  a 
member  of  the  municipality,  who  was  devoting  his 
money  and  time  and  life  to  saving  these  wretches. 
Equipped  with  large  powers  of  compulsion,  he  was 
forcing  the  landlord  to  pierce  shafts  through  the  whole 
height  of  the  house,  to  replace  small  windows  by  big, 
to  do  away  with  the  garrets.  The  landlord,  a  Hindu, 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us  ! 

had  all  the  native's  terror  of  spending  a  farthing :  he 
had  argued  and  pleaded  and  dallied,  but  this  morning 
he  was  at  last  beginning.  We  came  across  him — a 
fat,  yellow  toad  in  spotless  white  turban,  shirt,  and 
drawers,  with  a  red  kummerbund — half-sulky,  half- 
fawning,  trembling  to  the  naked  eye.  For  most  of 
his  rooms  he  will  be  getting  two  rupees  (2s.  8d.) 
a-week.  A  native  docker's  pay  is  only  seven ;  but  a 
native  can  easily  live  on  two  rupees  a-week,  and 
afford  the  rent  out  of  the  five.  There  are  perhaps 
fifty  rooms  in  the  house,  so  that  it  is  not  wonderful 
that  the  yellow  toad  grows  fat. 

The  English  councillor  had  persuaded  some  of  the 
worst-lodged  to  run  up  shelters  of  bamboo  and  mat- 
ting and  live  in  the  yard  outside.  It  was  light  and 
airy  at  least,  though  foul,  whereas  the  rooms  indoors 
were  mostly  clean.  Here,  little  isles  of  brown  skin 
and  scarlet,  white  and  yellow  cotton,  sat  families  amid 
the  carts  and  humped  oxen,  the  goats  and  the  fowls. 
In  the  house  the  goat  and  kid  lived  upstairs  with  the 
people ;  at  one  door  a  cooped  duck  was  quacking 
mournfully.  In  the  yard  the  oxen  lived  in  the  open, 
for  the  councillor  had  converted  the  byre  with  bamboo 
and  limewash  into  an  emergency  hospital. 

Going  out — it  was  good  to  open  your  mouth  and 
nostrils  again — we  passed  blocks  of  the  new  buildings 
the  municipality  has  provided, — hideous,  like  all  works 
of  corporations,  but  solidly  built  of  stone  and  brick, 
with  at  least  a  chance  of  seeing  and  breathing.  We 

20 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us ! 

came  next  to  a  segregation  camp,  where  they  isolate 
and  watch  people  who  have  been  in  contact  or  under 
suspicion  of  contact  with  the  plague-stricken.  It  was 
a  little  village  of  white  bamboo-matting,  with  an  open 
compartment  in  a  big  shed  for  each  family.  As  it 
was  already  eight  o'clock,  most  of  the  inhabitants 
were  out;  here  and  there  sat  a  nose-ringed  woman 
among  the  few  brass  cooking-pans  which  made  up 
the  family  furniture.  The  inmates  of  these  camps 
may  go  to  work,  but  they  must  be  back  by  six; 
meanwhile,  the  spectacled,  unshaven  native  apothe- 
cary in  charge  strolls  up  and  down  chambers  as 
soundless  as  if  they  were  already  graves. 

For  the  climax  of  the  dismal  story  we  come  to  the 
hospital  and  the  Parsi  physician — one  native,  at  least, 
who  knows  his  duty  and  does  it.  As  he  walked  from 
bed  to  bed  there  stepped  in  from  the  sun-steeped 
garden  a  golden-haired  English  girl  in  a  white-and- 
red  uniform — a  nurse  who  had  volunteered  to  come 
out  for  plague  duty,  and  has  lived  with  death  for  two 
years.  As  they  passed,  one  skeleton  raised  brilliant 
eyes  and  cried  out  thickly.  "  It-is-the-ty-pi-cal-voice- 
of-plague-as-in-in-tox-i-ca-tion,"  remarked  the  doctor. 
The  next  was  a  boy  with  facial  bubo — a  hideous  en- 
largement of  one  cheek  and  jaw  to  double  the  size  of 
the  other.  The  next  lay  and  panted ;  the  next — his 
wrists  tied  firmly  to  the  bed — muttered  and  struggled 
in  delirium.  The  next  was  recovering,  but  had  lost 
his  reason.  On  the  breast  of  the  last  of  the  row  was 

21 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us ! 

a  great  stain  of  treacly  gangrene  with  a  yellow  border 
round  it. 

Outside  there  was  a  clash  of  cymbals,  and  raucous 
voices  seemed  to  be  singing  a  round.  A  dozen  men 
strode  briskly  up  the  street  carrying  a  bier  and  a 
shape  under  a  pall  strewn  with  flowers. 

NOTE. 

The  foregoing  description  was  written  in  the  first  week  of 
January  1899.  In  the  first  week  of  March  I  was  again  in  Bom- 
bay and  found  a  very  different  state  of  things.  Plague  had  in- 
creased fearfully,  and  the  natives  were  once  more  in  full  flight.  In 
the  first  week  of  February  the  deaths  that  admittedly  resulted  from 
plague  were  five  hundred  and  eighty-eight.  The  next  week  they 
rose  to  a  hundred  a-day.  By  the  end  of  the  third  week  in  Febru- 
ary they  were  over  one  hundred  and  twenty  a-day ;  and  in  the  first 
week  of  March  it  was  admitted  that  over  one  hundred  and  fifty 
cases  were  dying  daily  of  plague,  while  every  unofficial  person  you 
met  insisted  that  the  official  estimates  were  designedly  optimistic, 
and  put  the  daily  mortality  between  two  hundred  and  fifty  and 
three  hundred.  Thousands  of  natives  fled  daily ;  and  though,  to 
my  eye,  the  city  seemed  as  full  as  ever,  I  was  assured  by  residents 
who  knew  it  well  that  I  was  mistaken.  In  addition  to  this, 
plague  was  reappearing  at  Poona,  was  very  severe  at  Bangalore, 
while  on  the  Kolar  gold-fields,  in  Hyderabad  territory,  at  least  one 
European  had  been  infected,  and  the  flight  of  the  coolies  had 
thrown  all  work  into  disorder.  About  the  same  time  plague  made 
its  reappearance  in  Calcutta ;  it  was  asserted — of  course  unoffi- 
cially— that  several  Europeans  died  of  it.  With  the  advent  of  the 
hot  weather,  which  in  these  parts  of  the  country  begins  at  mid- 
March,  plague  has  hitherto  always  declined. 

It  is  difficult  to  be  certain  of  statistics  in  a  country  like  India, 
where  a  constitutionally  nervous  government  withholds  all  the  in- 
formation it  can ;  but  even  the  few  figures  quoted  disclose  a  situa- 

22 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us ! 

tion  which  in  Great  Britain  would  be  thought  appalling.  In  India 
nobody  cares.  Yet  it  is  easy  to  see  that  if  plague  is  to  recur  every 
cold  weather  in  Bombay  with  added  severity — and  there  is  ap- 
parently no  scientific  certainty  in  the  pious  hope  that  it  will  ex- 
haust itself  in  seven  years  or  so — the  only  possible  end  will  be  ruin 
to  the  city.  Suppose  an  average  mortality  of  one  hundred  a-day 
spread  over  one  hundred  days  in  the  early  part  of  the  year.  Even 
this  moderate  estimate  comes  to  ten  thousand  a-year,  and  for  one 
that  dies  you  may  assume  that  at  least  ten  bolt  till  hot  weather  re- 
turns. In  a  year  or  two  business  will  be  paralysed  by  quarantine 
and  segregation  and  by  the  lack  of  labour,  and  Bombay,  at  the 
present  rate,  will  sooner  or  later  cease  to  exist  as  a  great  city. 

Of  course  this  is  not  to  be  taken  as  a  prophecy.  The  one  certain 
thing  about  plague — and  it  is  the  only  excuse  for  the  apathy  of  the 
Indian  Government  in  presence  of  it — is  that  nobody  knows  any- 
thing certain  about  it.  Conferences  and  commissions  dot  the 
country,  and  medical  Lieutenant-Colonels  give  evidence  before 
them ;  but  nothing  coherent  emerges  from  the  mass  of  detail  and 
opinion.  Nobody  seems  quite  certain  whether  inoculation  will 
keep  off,  much  less  cure,  the  disease.  Nobody  would  be  surprised 
if  it  were  to  become  endemic  in  India — a  second  cholera,  only  far 
worse ;  on  the  other  hand,  nobody  would  be  surprised  if  it  disap- 
peared as  suddenly  as  it  came. 

In  this  uncertainty  most  of  the  provincial  governments  prefer  to 
sit  still  and  hope,  rather  than  irritate  native  opinion  by  taking 
strong  measures  of  local  segregation.  Most  Europeans  in  high 
office  applaud  this  policy ;  most  others  despise  it.  Some  say  that 
it  would  have  paid  better  to  burn  Bombay  to  the  ground  as  soon  as 
plague  broke  out ;  others,  more  moderate,  deplore  the  abandon- 
ment, in  deference  to  native  prejudice,  of  the  strict  measures  of 
visitation  and  segregation  which  were  at  first  enforced  in  Bombay. 
There  are  three  methods  of  dealing  with  plague.  The  first  is  that 
attributed — let  us  hope  mistakenly — to  the  Lieutenant-Governor  of 
Bengal.  Being  pressed  by  the  Viceroy,  who  was  in  turn  pressed 
by  the  Home  Government,  to  take  strong  measures  to  enforce  sani- 
tation, observation  of  suspects,  and  segregation,  in  Calcutta,  the 

23 


Lord,  Have  Mercy  on  Us! 

Lieutenant-Governor — so  the  tale  goes — refused,  and  threatened  to 
resign  if  he  were  pressed  further.  The  only  possible  reason  for 
such  a  refusal  would  be  sheer  cowardice — the  fear  of  an  agitation 
in  the  native  press  and  possible  riots  in  the  native  quarters;  its 
only  possible  result  would  be  contempt  of  government  among  the 
governed,  and,  sooner  or  later,  thousands  dead  of  plague.  The 
second  method  was  pursued  with  great  success  in  a  large  village  in 
the  Punjab.  Plague  had  broken  out,  and  the  infected  persons 
were  to  be  taken  away.  The  civil  servant  and  police-officer  went 
into  the  village  to  fetch  them,  whereon  the  inhabitants  collected  on 
the  roofs  and  pelted  them  with  tiles.  As  long  as  only  the  white 
men  were  hit,  this  was  very  entertaining  sport ;  only  by  bad  luck 
a  few  ill-aimed  tiles  fell  among  the  Pathan  policemen  who  were 
following.  These  at  once  opened  fire  and  killed  eight  of  the  vil- 
lagers. The  infected  persons  were  then  peacefully  taken  away, 
the  village  isolated,  and  the  attack  of  plague  nipped  in  the  bud. 
The  third  method,  employed  with  great  success  at  Poona  by  (I 
think)  Colonel  Creagh,  V.C.,  is  a  combination  of  the  other  two. 
He  employed  soldiers  to  visit  suspected  houses,  and  Brahmans  to  go 
with  them  to  explain  the  necessity  of  the  measures  taken.  This  is 
probably  the  best  method  of  the  three.  The  fatalistic  attitude 
hitherto  adopted  by  the  provincial  governments — with  the  meri- 
torious exception  of  Madras — seems  explicable  only  as  a  con- 
venient means  for  keeping  down  the  overgrowth  of  Indian  popula- 
tions. 


IV 

THE  MOST  SPORTING  COUNTRY  IN 
THE  WORLD 

IN  the  ignorant  West  we  think  of  India  as  a  land 
of  giant  palms  shooting  from  matted  undergrowth  of 
languorous  scents  and  steaming  heat.  The  India  you 
run  through  between  Bombay  and  Jodhpur  is  mere 
prairie — coarse  grass,  scanty  trees  here  and  there,  thin 
goats  and  cattle,  sand,  and  shivering  villagers.  As 
for  steaming  heat — w-w-w-wr  ! — bloodless  fingers 
trembled  helplessly  round  buttons  as  I  tried  to  dress 
in  the  railway  carriage.  Tropical  India !  W-w-w- 
w-wr ! 

The  kindness  of  the  superintendent  of  the  railway 
had  postponed  the  agony  from  three  till  seven  in  the 
morning  by  uncoupling  my  carriage  at  Jodhpur.  I 
blessed  his  name,  and  the  easy,  unbuttoned  habits  of 
native  States,  as  I  stepped  out  on  to  the  empty,  spot- 
less platform  and  found  the  sun  just  rising.  Half-a- 
dozen  bare-legged  natives  cowered  under  the  well- 
built  offices — shaking  violently,  shrunken,  miserable, 
half-dead,  waiting  for  the  sun  to  kindle  them  back  to 
life.  For  luckier  me  came  a  carriage  with  three  foot- 
men, and  a  cart  drawn  by  a  couple  of  towering  camels 
— their  noses  thrust  heavenwards  in  vain,  indignant 
25 


The  Most  Sporting  Country  in  the  World 

protest — to  take  the  baggage.  We  rolled  forth  into 
the  independent  Rajput  State  of  Jodhpur. 

Its  inhabitants  seemed  different  from  the  flabby 
creatures  I  had  left  in  Bombay.  They  were  taller, 
held  themselves  straight,  and  looked  before  them ; 
most  grew  strong,  black,  bushy  beards,  self-respect- 
ingly  oiled,  parted  in  the  middle,  and  brushed  stiffly 
upward  and  towards  the  ears.  Many  of  them  were 
on  horseback,  sitting  upright,  with  a  firm  and  easy 
seat,  controlling  spirited  ponies  with  a  touch  on  a 
single  snaffle.  There  seemed,  indeed,  an  extraordi- 
nary number  of  horses  out  that  morning  about  Jodh- 
pur. Sandy  rides  bordered  the  well-metalled  road  on 
both  sides,  and  almost  a  continuous  string  of  horses 
stood  tied  up  to  the  regularly  planted  trees.  As  I 
reached  my  host's  gate,  a  man  holding  a  chestnut 
Arab  stood  up  on  the  wall  and  salaamed. 

An  hour  later  I  was  privileged  to  meet  the  Prime 
Minister.  He  wore  a  pith  topi — which  means  sun- 
helmet — a  padded  and  quilted  box-coat,  and  beneath 
it  strange  breeches  of  drab  cloth,  of  which  the  con- 
tinuations came  down,  without  gaiters,  over  his  boots. 
His  conversation  was  of  pig-sticking  and  the  mouth- 
ing of  young  horses.  Presently,  riding  out,  we  came 
to  the  cupolas  of  the  Maharajah's  suburban  palace. 
A  dozen  saddle-horses  stood  outside  it,  and  a  string  of 
sheeted  thoroughbreds  was  being  taken  out  to  ex- 
ercise. The  living  part  of  the  palace  is  neither  large 
nor  luxurious  as  maharajahs'  dwellings  go;  but  the 

26 


The  Most  Sporting  Country  in  the  World 

stables  are  vast  beyond  the  dreams  of  Tattersall. 
Every  more  than  usually  palatial  building  in  the  en- 
virons of  Jodhpur  turns  out  to  be  a  stable.  The 
palace  establishment  is  a  great  quadrangle  of  loose 
"boxes  about  the  size  of  Russell  Square.  Saddles  and 
sets  of  carriage  harness,  new  and  old,  frayed  and 
glorious,  Wilkinson  and  Ram  Singh,  line  the  walls  in 
battalions.  His  Highness  was  unhappily  not  out  this 
morning ;  a  week  before,  schooling  a  two-year-old  on 
the  racecourse,  he  had  been  carried  into  a  post  and 
had  hurt  his  arm.  It  was  still  in  a  sling,  and  the 
Maharajah — a  handsome  but  languid  lad  of  eighteen 
or  so — was  deeply  depressed.  "  I  am  feeling  a  bit 
chippy  this  morning,"  he  explained :  carriage  exercise 
was  no  use  to  him ;  he  wanted  to  be  on  horseback  or 
with  his  dogs  and  gun. 

We  trotted  on  with  the  Prime  Minister  for  the 
further  inspection  of  Jodhpur.  Beyond  the  palace — 
his  Excellency  larking  over  a  couple  of  fences  on  the 
way — we  came  to  a  spacious  polo-ground  laid  down 
with  faultlessly  rolled  grit :  to  this  is  attributed  the 
fact  that  they  had  never  had  anybody  killed  at  this 
game.  Past  the  polo-ground  was  a  racecourse ;  on  it 
more  horses  were  being  exercised  ;  and  when  you 
raised  your  eyes  to  the  sandy  horizon,  behold  !  it  was 
thick  with  horses  on  every  side — young  horses  and 
old,  Walers  and  Arabs  and  country-breds,  racers  and 
pig-stickers  and  polo-ponies,  hackneys  and  even  a  pair 
of  Shetlands,  greys,  chestnuts,  and  blacks, — the  whole 

27 


The  Most  Sporting  Country  in  the  World 

country  was  a  whirl  of  horses  wherever  the  eye  could 
see  and  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

The  Jodhpur  riding-breeches — breeches  and  gaiters 
all  in  one  piece,  as  full  as  you  like  above  the  knee, 
fitting  tight  below  it,  without  a  single  button  or  strap 
— have  been  taken  up,  as  I  am  told,  by  a  London 
artist,  and  are  on  the  way  to  be  world-famous.  The 
Jodhpur  standing  martingale  is  as  yet  less  known :  it 
is  thought  that  leather  chafes  a  horse  in  the  hot 
weather,  so  a  long  band  of  soft  cloth  is  used  instead. 
The  State  polo  team  has  beaten  most  in  India,  and  no 
cavalry  regiment  thinks  itself  quite  ready  for  a  big 
tournament  till  it  has  put  in  a  fortnight's  practice  at 
Jodhpur.  It  is  many  years  now  since  the  Jodhpur- 
owned  Selwood,  the  Prime  Minister  up — "  I  riding 
niny-seven,  English  jockey-boy  riding  sixy  stone,  I 
beating  him" — won  the  Calcutta  Derby.  The 
present  chief,  himself  the  most  beautiful  horseman 
among  all  the  hard-riding  princes  of  India,  entered 
into  his  inheritance  a  year  or  so  ago.  He  instantly 
started  a  racing  stable  in  Calcutta,  a  stable  at  New- 
market, stud-farm  in  Australia,  and,  of  course,  every- 
thing conceivable  at  Jodhpur.  As  for  the  Jodhpur 
pig-sticking,  is  it  not  famous  over  the  length  and 
breadth  of  India?  The  Jodhpur  Imperial  Service 
Lancers  are  as  smart  a  tent-pegging  corps  as  exists 
in  the  world.  A  member  of  the  Royal  Family,  re- 
turning from  the  Jubilee  of  '87,  brought  with  him,  as 
the  best  of  our  contributions  to  human  wellbeing,  a 

28 


The  Most  Sporting  Country  in  the  World 

hansom  cab,  which  he  personally  drove  across  coun- 
try. Briefly,  Jodhpur  spells  horse.  The  small-talk 
of  a  hunting  county  is  varied  and  cosmopolitan  beside 
that  of  Jodhpur.  Even  in  Newmarket  there  are  some 
half-a-dozen  people  who  have  no  visible  connection 
with  racing.  Altogether  Jodhpur  can  probably  claim 
without  arrogance  to  be  the  most  sporting  country  in 
the  whole  world. 

The  territory  of  the  State  of  Marwar,  whereof  it 
is  the  capital,  lies  in  the  western  part  of  Rajputana. 
Fringing  the  great  Indian  desert,  it  is  itself  half- 
desert,  with  a  scanty  rainfall  and  a  sandy  soil.  An 
ideal  rain  first  breaks  up  the  hard  ground  in  early 
June,  then  falls  lightly  till  September,  when,  the  sort 
of  millet  on  which  the  Marwaris  live  being  hus- 
banded, another  heavy  fall  is  desirable  to  fill  the  tanks 
for  the  cold  weather.  But  ideal  rains  are  rare,  and 
Marwar  is  a  relatively  sterile  country — level  and  soft- 
going  for  horses,  though  perhaps  a  little  heavy  for 
training  racers — but  none  too  rich  even  in  grass,  and 
niggardly  of  food  to  men. 

So  that  a  generation  ago  the  natural  disadvantages 
of  the  country  having  been  sedulously  supplemented 
by  mismanagement,  the  State  was  bankrupt,  the  peo- 
ple were  crushed  by  taxation,  the  Government  was  a 
mass  of  corrupt  inepitude,  a  Government  only  in 
name.  Then  came  a  man,  an  English  resident,  who 
knew  how  to  work  on  the  pride  of  the  Rajput,  the 
son  of  fifty  generations  of  kings  :  he  made  men  of 

29 


The  Most  Sporting  Country  in  the  World 

them  and  a  State  of  Marwar.  To  this  day  they  quote 
his  admonitions  with  a  simple  adoration,  half-childish, 
half-manly.  "This  sahib  very  fine  rider,  good  for 
polo-play,  good  for  pig-shtickin'.  This  sahib  telling 
me,  you  gentleman  bai,  do  gentleman  things,  work 
like  gentleman." 

They  did  work  like  gentlemen.  They  did  not  build 
a  museum  and  a  school  of  art,  as  did  the  neighbour- 
ing State,  where  a  Bengali  babu  is  Prime  Minister ; 
but  they  put  the  taxation  and  law  courts  on  a  footing 
of  rough-and-ready  justice,  they  ventilated  the  jail, 
and  especially  made  a  branch  line  to  connect  with  the 
Rajputana  railway.  At  the  urgent  instance  of  the 
superintendent  of  their  railway,  they  made  a  great  res- 
ervoir to  hold  the  summer  rain  and  an  aqueduct  to 
bring  it  to  the  city.  In  dry  seasons  the  people  used 
to  have  to  migrate  elsewhere ;  now  they  get  suffi- 
ciency, if  not  abundance,  of  water  throughout  the 
worst  of  years.  They  have  instituted  a  little  Decau- 
ville  railway  to  carry  the  sewage  out  of  the  city ;  they 
have  made  roads  all  round  their  city  and  planted  trees 
— you  may  see  the  young  ones,  each  in  a  cup  of  care- 
fully moistened  mud  and  fenced  with  a  wall  of 
mimosa  thorn — where  before  was  nothing  but  desert. 

Conceiving  the  British  to  be  the  only  true  sports- 
men in  the  world  besides  themselves,  the  men  of  Mar- 
war  are  loyal  beyond  suspicion  to  their  suzerain. 
They  look  on  their  Resident  not  as  a  spy  or  a  task- 
master, but  as  a  friend.  "  You  thinking,  sahib,  being 

3° 


The  Most  Sporting  Country  in  the  World 

more  war  soon  ?  "  they  will  ask  him  anxiously,  for 
they  ask  no  better  than  to  have  a  chance  of  showing 
what  their  cavalry  can  do  for  the  Empress. 

But  with  all  the  modern  improvements  and  the 
British  sympathy,  Marwar  is  not  over-governed.  Its 
political  life  is  simple  like  itself.  State  affairs  are  not 
neglected,  but  the  cavalry  and  the  polo,  the  racing  and 
the  pig-sticking,  remain  the  serious  business  of  life. 
The  horse,  who  abases  the  base,  is  to  these  simple 
aristocrats  the  salt  that  keeps  their  life  sweet  and 
clean.  He  keeps  them  in  a  happy  mean  between  the 
half-baked  civilisation  of  the  babu  and  the  besotted 
sensuality  of  the  old  Asiatic  rulers.  He  solves  for 
them  the  great  problem  of  the  ruling  races  of  India 
— how  to  employ  themselves  innocuously  now  that  in 
India  there  is  no  more  war. 

How  simple  and  manly  they  remain  you  may  easily 
gather  from  half  an  hour  with  such  of  them  as  have 
been  to  England.  Petted  in  London  drawing-rooms, 
pampered  at  Ascot,  admitted  to  easy  intercourse  with 
Royalty,  they  remain  unaffected,  modest,  sincere,  now 
exploding  in  boyish  laughter,  now  gravely  respectful 
to  the  sahib  as  to  a  father.  The  babu,  you  see,  feel- 
ing himself  inferior  at  heart,  is  jerkily  familiar ;  the 
Jodhpur  Rajput,  knowing  himself  your  equal,  can 
afford  to  call  you  Sahib  and  salaam.  The  intimacy 
of  princes  cannot  raise  him  ;  the  friendship  of  the 
plainest  cannot  lower  him.  He  is  a  Rathore  Rajput ; 
he  can  never  be  more,  and  he  can  never  be  less. 

31 


A  RAJPUT  CITY 

THE  Rathores,  the  ruling  family  of  Jodhpur,  are 
probably — bracketed  with  one  or  two  other  Rajput 
stocks — the  most  noble  house  in  the  world.  Their 
pedigree  begins  with  the  beginning  of  time,  but  for 
practical  purposes  it  need  not  be  followed  back  be- 
yond 470  A.  D.  At  that  time  they  are  certainly 
known  to  have  been  kings ;  and  kings  they  have  been 
ever  since — at  first  in  Kanauj,  in  the  Ganges  Valley, 
and  afterwards,  driven  thence,  in  Rajputana.  In  the 
undesirable  scrub  and  desert  they  cut  out  their  king- 
dom, and  perched  their  fort  on  the  rock  ;  seven  cen- 
turies of  unequal  war  with  Afghan  and  Mogul  em- 
perors, with  Maratha  rievers  and  with  their  brother 
States  of  Rajputana,  had  left  them  faint  but  surviv- 
ing, when  the  British  Peace  came  to  give  them  rest. 

As  the  Rajputs  are  the  purest  blood  of  India,  so 
their  social  structure  is  the  oldest — a  mixture  of  feu- 
dalism and  clanship,  where  the  nobles  hold  the  lands 
their  ancestors  won  in  war  or  received  from  kings  as 
younger  sons'  portions.  Elsewhere  in  India  the  Ma- 
harajah is  the  State  and  his  subjects  nothing ;  in  Raj- 
putana he  is  the  head  of  the  family,  first  among  his 

32 


A  Rajput  City 

peers.  The  lower  castes,  descendants  of  the  con- 
quered aborigines,  are  nothing ;  but  the  poorest  Raj- 
put is  kin  to  the  king. 

The  cenotaphs  of  the  Rathore  rulers  are  at  Mandor, 
three  miles  out.  There  they  had  their  capital  before, 
in  1459,  Jodha  built  his  castle  above  the  city  that 
bears  his  name;  and  here  their  ashes  were  buried. 
Through  a  gate  of  carved  stone,  you  come  into  a 
garden  cool  with  green  leaves,  starred  with  ruddy- 
purple  bougainvillea,  blooming  richly  under  the  brow 
of  bare  precipices.  Beyond  are  the  tombs — tapering 
masses  of  dark,  red-brown  stone,  as  proud  as  pyra- 
mids, as  graceful  as  spires.  Terrace  rises  from 
square  arch,  pillar  and  capital  climb  above  terrace ; 
over  all  towers  a  cone-shaped  dome — not  the  plain 
dome  we  know,  but  the  union  of  a  multitude  of  tiny 
ones  running  one  into  the  other,  till  the  whole  is 
ribbed  and  fluted  and  looks  like  a  pine-apple.  From 
a  coping-stone  here,  from  a  seam  in  the  pine-apple 
there,  looks  out  the  sculptured  head  of  the  royal  ele- 
phant. At  one  tomb,  says  the  custodian  with  a  tear 
for  the  past  and  a  sigh  for  the  degenerate  present,  no 
less  than  eighty-four  widows  were  burned. 

But  before  you  come  to  the  cenotaphs  of  the  kings, 
— and  this  is  the  point,  as  illustrating  Rajput  society, 
— you  will  have  passed  a  gallery  something  between 
statuary  and  fresco.  Under  a  colonnade  is  a  huge 
procession  of  coloured  figures  in  relief — colossal  and 
crude,  with  faces  like  the  necklaced  cats  you  buy  in 


A  Rajput  City 

china  shops,  and  horses  less  horse-like  than  the  toys 
of  our  childhood.  They  are  so  naively  hideous,  the 
contrast  between  the  babyish  statuary  and  the  effort- 
less, masterly  architecture  is  so  astounding,  that  you 
ask  the  Vakil  whether  these  are  not  gods.  The  Vakil 
is  officially  a  sort  of  agent  between  the  Marwar 
Government  and  the  Resident,  and  personally  a 
pleasant,  dark-faced,  black-moustached  young  man  in 
a  sweater  and  tunic  and  the  celebrated  Jodhpur  riding- 
breeches.  "  No,  sir,  not  god,"  he  replies.  "  Kings, 
then?"  "No,  sir,  not  king — gentleman — like  me." 
These  are  heroes  who  have  distinguished  themselves 
in  war — not  monarchs,  not  necessarily  of  the  imme- 
diate Royal  Family ;  simply  Rajputs,  "  gentleman, 
like  me,"  and  as  such  fitted  for  any  gallery  of  glories. 
In  the  city  that  nestles  under  the  sheer  scarped  rock 
you  will  see  those  who  are  not  Rajputs — the  subjects. 
Driving  in  through  the  gate,  under  the  battlements  of 
the  broad,  crumbling  wall,  you  are  instantly  in  com- 
plete India,  unspoiled  and  unimproved.  Jodhpur  has 
its  Decauville  railway,  you  are  aware ;  it  also  has  its 
froward  camels,  who  lie  down  across  the  High  Street 
and  refuse  to  move  for  royal  carriages.  Over  any 
booth  in  the  bazaar,  on  any  poor  man's  house,  you 
will  see  stonework — latticed  windows,  mouldings, 
traceries,  cornices  overhanging  the  street — so  exquis- 
ite that  they  seem  wafted  out  of  a  fairy  tale.  Yet, 
when  it  wanted  but  another  foot  of  stone,  another 
week  of  work,  to  be  perfect,  the  artist  broke  off,  and 

34 


A  Rajput  City 

the  delicate  masterpiece  is  finished  by  a  few  rough- 
hewn  slabs  piled  on  anyhow,  a  mat  or  a  heap  of  sods, 
a  paintless  broken  shutter  framed  in  a  jewel  of  carv- 
ing. It  is  the  East,  you  murmur,  enraptured — the 
undiluted  East  at  last,  opulent,  shiftless,  grotesque, 
magical.  There  is  a  temple — pure  Orient.  The 
central  shrine  rises  in  tiers  of  jutting  eaves  like  a  pa- 
goda; the  front  is  an  embroidery  of  stone  screens; 
down  over  the  windows  droop  long  crescent-shaped 
cornices  like  a  gull's  wings ;  at  each  side  of  the  en- 
trance-steps stands  a  marble-elephant,  all  straight  lines 
and  square  corners,  as  if  it  had  just  stepped  out  of  a 
Noah's  ark.  Passing  on,  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  an- 
other facade  of  tracery,  lavished  on  a  street  a  yard 
wide  where  nobody  could  ever  see  it ;  on  the  other 
side,  over  a  bunch  of  wood-and-straw  hovels  on  a 
rock,  soars  another  pine-apple  dome.  There  is  an- 
other marvel  of  stonework,  arches  and  window-frames 
finished  with  the  finger-nail  but  blending  into  one  long 
harmonious  front ;  the  thousand  points  of  its  cornice 
overhang  a  row  of  shabby  shops,  whose  fires  have 
blackened  the  fretwork  with  generations  of  smoke. 

This  is  surely  pure  East.  Your  eye  has  strung  it- 
self to  the  high  tones  of  colour  by  now,  and  what  at 
first  only  dazzled  now  shows  you  shades  and  sym- 
phonies. The  people  group  themselves  for  you : 
every  window-space  and  roof  is  full  of  their  radiance. 
Blues  soften  from  cobalt  through  peacock  to  indigo ; 
turbans  are  no  longer  merely  flaring  red  or  yellow, 

35 


A  Rajput  City 

but  magenta,  crimson,  flame-colour,  salmon-colour, 
gold,  orange,  lemon.  The  group  of  women  bunched 
in  the  street  in  worn  garments  is  a  study  in  brick-red 
and  old  gold.  Every  shop  in  the  bazaar — an  old  man 
squatting  among  metal  pots,  a  boy  with  liquid  eyes 
dilating  at  the  unknown  sahib,  both  in  a  bare  cube  of 
dirty  plaster  four  steps  above  the  street — becomes  a 
picture  in  its  frame.  Here  is  the  Royal  Mint,  and 
they  bring  you  a  chair  to  see  the  fashioning  of  gold 
mohurs  and  silver  rupees.  One  man  weighs  out  the 
metal,  another  fuses  it  in  a  blow-pipe  flame  to  a  fat 
disc,  another  holds  it  on  a  die,  and  yet  another  smites 
it  with  a  die-hammer.  The  coin  jumps  out  jingling, 
and  they  will  sell  it  you  warm ;  only  the  mauve-clad 
master  of  the  mint  forgets  how  much  it  is  worth,  and 
will  send  you  your  change  to-morrow.  Next,  jingling 
bells  and  flinging  abroad  their  harlequin  rags  of  yellow, 
dull  red  and  citron,  come  a  group  of  fakirs ;  round  the 
next  corner  is  a  yet  holier  man,  flowing  grey-bearded, 
his  face  white  with  ashes ;  turn  again  and  a  votary  is 
sitting  cross-legged  on  an  empty  petroleum-box  with 
his  nose  against  a  six-armed,  three-headed,  monkey- 
grinned  god.  Then  you  pass  through  a  wide  market, 
floored  with  sacks  of  corn  and  roofed  with  clouds  of 
blue  pigeons,  to  the  tank — a  sheet  of  green-gold  water 
walled  with  stone,  with  parapets  and  broad  staircases, 
and  at  the  foot  of  each,  purple-  or  brown-  or  carna- 
tion-clad women  dipping  with  shining  brass. 

Oh  yes,  pure  East — and  here  vaguely  sways  an  ele- 
36 


A  Rajput  City 

phant  up  the  street ;  and  there — there — O  disillusion  ! 
— a  little  shabby  box  on  wheels  switchbacks  along 
little  rails,  bumps  into  camels,  jaggernauts  over  lop- 
eared  goats,  and  bears  the  inscription,  "  Jodhpur 
Tramways."  And  now  I  see,  amid  strange  vegetables 
and  fruits,  amid  loin-clothed  bakers  kneading  strange 
dough  into  strange  confectionery,  cheap,  gaudy  Ger- 
man pictures,  illuminated  for  the  export  market,  daub- 
ing native  gods  even  more  brutally  hideous  than  the 
reality. 

Alas  !  there  seems  no  East  without  its  smudge  of 
West.  Come  up  to  the  fort  on  the  rock ;  perhaps  we 
shall  find  an  untainted  sanctuary  there.  The  rock 
springs  sheer  up  from  the  nestling  town,  every  face 
scarped  into  smooth  precipice;  the  ancient  palace  of 
the  Rathores  lifts  its  diadem  from  the  summit.  To 
reach  the  zigzags  that  climb  to  it  you  must  sweep  all 
round  the  city,  up  rock-fringed  serpentines  ;  and  when 
you  have  climbed  to  the  gate  the  palace  seems  more 
inaccessibly  lofty  than  before. 

Look  up.  White  walls,  half  bastion,  half  Titanic 
pillar,  mount  up  and  up ;  small  over  your  head,  up  in 
the  very  sky,  leaning  over  dizzy  nothing,  hang  blush- 
red  fairy  houses  with  pin-point  windows.  Under  a 
frowning  gateway,  past  the  trapping-houses  of  the 
royal  elephants,  turn,  and  up  another  steep-walled 
slope,  another — there  are  the  rough  heaps  of  stone 
still  in  place  to  hurl  down  on  to  a  storming  party — till 
you  come  to  another  tall,  grim  gateway.  Here  on 

37 


A  Rajput  City 

slabs  on  either  side  you  see  the  rough  prints  of  hands 
— five  on  the  right,  some  thirty  on  the  left — each  the 
mark  of  a  queen  as  she  came  down  from  the  fort  for 
the  last  time  to  be  burned  with  her  dead  lord. 

You  still  feel  like  a  beetle  as  you  look  up  at  the 
brows  of  the  palace,  but  there  is  only  one  long  ramp 
to  pull  up.  And  then  you  stand  in  front  of  buildings 
laced  all  over  with  carving,  rigid  as  the  stone  it  is, 
light  as  the  air  it  breathes.  You  pass  from  arch  to 
arch,  to  court  within  court,  till  you  are  mazed  with 
gull-wing  window-shades,  lattice-windows,  fretted 
screens,  thousand-pointed  pendent  cornices,  the  epit- 
ome of  all  the  beauties  below.  Description  melts 
away  powerless  before  the  myriad  touches,  the 
majestic  whole :  you  can  only  murmur,  a  fairy  tale 
charmed  into  stone. 

And  then  when  you  go  into  the  royal  saloons 
you  find  them  illuminated  like  an  old  missal  with 
labyrinths  of  gold  and  azure  and  scarlet,  lustrous 
with  gold  and  rose-coloured  silks,  and  furnished  with 
the  crudest,  ugliest,  gaudiest,  vulgarest  drawing-room 
suites  and  ottomans  and  occasional  tables.  You  look 
for  the  ticket  on  the  back  :  "  In  this  style,  complete, 
one  million  rupees."  And  the  richest  apartment  of 
all  is  bile  and  jaundice  with  cheap  green  and  yellow 
panes  from  the  window  of  a  suburban  lavatory  ! 

Yet  it  is  very  good.  They  can  turn  splendour  into 
grotesqueness,  but  after  all  they  will  hardly  face  the 
stone  poetry  with  red  brick  and  stucco.  And  there 

38 


A  Rajput  City 

always  remains  the  fort.  The  rows  of  guns  on  the 
terrace — from  the  little  dragon-mouthed,  dragon-tailed 
one,  almost  scraping  ground  with  its  fat  belly,  to 
the  black  four-wheeled  leviathan  that  must  have  used 
up  elephants  on  elephants  to  mount  here — the  antique 
guns  will  always  look  out  to  the  white  and  green 
checker-board  of  Jodhpur.  At  sundown,  when  the 
mile-long  columns  of  cattle  trail  in  from  pasture, 
and  the  golden  clouds  rise  up  from  the  Prime 
Minister's  polo-ground,  the  naked  rock  and  hard- 
browed  walls  stand  up,  steadfast,  indestructible, 
proud,  above  the  dust-veil  and  the  city  sheltering  at 
their  feet.  At  sundown  they  are  lambent  in  every 
seam  and  wrinkle  with  cold  violet-blue ;  at  dawn  they 
will  glow  with  hot  carmine;  but  always  they  will  be 
there.  The  city  may  change,  the  cattle  and  the  very 
polo  may  pass  away ;  but,  night  and  morning,  the 
fastness  of  the  Rathores  will  endure  for  ever. 


39 


VI 

THE  CAMP  OF  EXERCISE 

THE  Inspector-General  of  Cavalry  had  his  camp 
under  the  further  side  of  the  Ridge.  Its  flawless 
order  was  a  joy  to  see — the  unswerving  straight  lines 
of  the  roads,  the  exact  set  of  the  tents,  with  the  occu- 
pant's name  on  each  and  his  servants'  tent  behind,  the 
abundance  of  fodder  in  the  horse-lines,  the  spreading 
office-  and  mess-tents.  These  were  floored  with  mat- 
ting and  furnished  with  desks  and  easy-chairs.  In  the 
smaller  officers'  tents  you  saw  writing-tables  and 
dressing-tables  perfectly  set  out.  In  India  your  tent 
is  more  than  half  a  home,  and  what  India  does  not 
know  of  camping  is  misleading  heresy. 

A  mile  beyond  was  encamped  the  Southern  Divi- 
sion, five  miles  beyond  that  the  Northern.  In  this 
winter  weather — and,  oh,  how  wintry  it  is,  once  you 
get  out  of  the  sun  ! — English  hours  rule :  we  get  up 
comfortably  at  daybreak,  eat  a  lordly  breakfast  at 
nine,  and  jog  ofF  in  the  dust  at  ten  to  see  the  day's 
fight.  The  Inspector-General  rides  off  with  about  a 
dozen  of  a  staff":  such  luxuries  as  D.A.Q.M.G.'s  are 
never  stinted  in  India.  With  them  rides  a  young 

40 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

maharajah  in  khaki,  very  frank  and  manly,  carrying 
good-comradeship  to  the  point  of  larking  with  British 
officers,  but  eating  his  sandwich  and  plain  soda  alone 
like  a  self-respecting  Hindu — not  at  all  your  idea  of 
the  oriental  potentate.  The  leaf-fringed  road  is  lively 
with  horsemen  and  horsewomen,  dogcarts,  and  the 
miraculous  native  cabs  of  Delhi.  They  look  half 
jaunting-car,  half  ice-cream  barrow — a  gay-painted 
box,  on  whose  lid  two  or  four  people  squat  cross- 
legged,  back  to  back,  under  a  shabby  canvas  awning. 
Also  any  number  of  natives  on  foot  pad  out  to  see 
the  sahibs  play  at  war. 

Just  past  the  Northern  camp  we  came  to  the  line 
of  the  East  Indian  Railway,  at  a  point  where  its  em- 
bankment was  pierced  by  a  bridge.  Roughly  parallel 
to  the  line  was  the  road ;  between,  the  ground  was 
level,  but  for  two  or  three  hillocks  to  the  left  of  the 
bridge,  and  covered  with  rough  grass.  The  other 
side  of  the  line  was  similar  ground  for  the  best  part  of 
a  mile,  only  broken  by  a  mass  of  tumble-down  walls 
just  opposite  the  debouch  from  the  bridge,  and  finally 
ringed  in  by  a  semicircle  of  thick  trees.  This  was 
the  scene  of  the  day's  work.  The  bridge  represented 
a  defile,  and  was  the  only  way  from  one  side  of  the 
line  to  the  other;  the  rule  was  that,  though  dis- 
mounted men  might  line  the  railway  bank,  nobody 
was  to  cross  it. 

Beyond  the  line  we  saw  the  black  ranks  of  nine 
squadrons  of  cavalry  and  a  horse-battery.  It  was  just 

41 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

eleven  o'clock,  and  as  we  saw,  they  formed  into 
column  and  started  to  pass  through  to  our  side  of  the 
bridge.  They  were  going  to  look  for  the  enemy,  who 
was  advancing  from  somewhere  the  other  side  of  the 
road.  When  they  found  him,  they  would  reconnoitre 
him ;  and  if  he  proved  too  strong  to  be  fought  in  the 
open,  would  retire  and  attack  him  as  he  passed  the  de- 
file. As  it  happened,  everybody  knew  he  would  be 
too  strong ;  he  had  thirteen  squadrons  of  the  twenty- 
two — six  regiments,  two  British  and  four  native — 
which  made  up  the  whole  division.  Then  the  weaker 
commander,  knowing  the  ground  on  his  side  of  the 
bridge,  might  attack  the  stronger  force  as  they  came 
in  column  through  the  defile,  and  roll  them  up  before 
they  had  time  to  deploy  and  make  their  numbers  tell. 
It  was  a  very  pretty  problem. 

Out  came  the  weaker  force  from  the  railway  bridge. 
"  Hang  the  men  !  "  muttered  the  Inspector-General. 
"  Why  don't  they  come  faster  ?  They'll  get  jammed 
under  the  bridge."  The  general  is  a  great  race-rider 
and  pig-sticker,  and  a  very  hot  man  all  round,  and 
especially  he  realises  the  vital  value  of  pace  in  war  as 
in  sport.  Next  instant  they  quickened  to  a  trot ;  a 
scrunching  roar  showed  that  the  guns  were  coming 
through,  and  the  long  columns  were  half-way  to  the 
road. 

It  was  my  first  sight  of  Indian  cavalry,  and  I  looked 
curiously.  Bigger  than  the  down-country  natives  I 
had  seen  hitherto,  they  were  very  light  men  compared 

42 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

with  Europeans — small-boned  and  spare.  That  was 
the  first  idea ;  the  second  was  that  they  would  be  bad 
men  to  pursue  and  worse  still  to  run  from.  Dark- 
skinned,  black-bearded,  keen-eyed,  swinging  easily  in 
the  body  and  gripping  the  horse  hermetically  with  the 
legs,  they  looked  born  troopers  all  over — swift  and 
fierce  and  tireless.  Their  uniform  was  in  their 
character — huge  turbans,  blue,  blue  and  white,  blue 
and  red  or  crimson,  lowering  over  bushy  brows  and 
wild  eyes,  and  dancing  in  the  breeze  behind  long 
tunics  of  dark  blue  or  khaki,  relieved  by  brilliant 
kummerbunds,  breeches  like  divided  skirts,  and  tight 
putties  below.  It  was  almost  startling  to  see  white 
officers  in  such  a  kit — a  brick-burned  face  with  yel- 
low eyebrows  and  moustache  looking  out  from  under 
a  peaked  cap  of  scarlet  velvet  with  a  vast  blue  turban 
wound  round  it ;  a  huge  chest  under  a  khaki  tunic, 
whose  long  tails  proclaim  it  first  cousin  of  the 
oriental  shirt ;  a  broad  scarlet  kummerbund  under  the 
regulation  belt ;  orange  breeches,  and  long  black 
boots.  It  was  one  more  revelation  of  the  wonderful 
Englishman  who  can  make  himself  into  half  a  savage 
to  make  savages  into  half-civilised  men. 

By  this  time  the  force  was  across  the  road,  and 
before  it  stretched  miles  and  miles  of  yellow  grass, 
sparsely  tufted  with  a  few  bushes — the  ideal  of 
cavalry  ground.  Already,  far  ahead  of  the  long  lines 
that  walked  warily  forward,  groups  of  little  ant-like 
creatures  trailed  swiftly  over  this  plain  :  they  were 

43 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

officers'  patrols,  an  officer  and  a  man  or  two  going 
forward  to  feel  for  the  enemy.  They  went  on,  till 
from  ants  they  became  black  dots,  then  stopped.  On 
the  bushy  horizon  appeared  other  dots — the  enemy's 
patrols.  Then  all  the  dots  moved  again, — going  on  ? 
— coming  back  ? — yes,  coming  back  at  a  racing  gal- 
lop. The  dot  came  back  to  an  ant,  and  the  ant  sud- 
denly leaped  into  a  tearing  horse  and  man,  bringing 
the  kind  of  news  which  in  the  real  thing  may  mean 
life  or  death  to  regiments  or  armies  or  nations.  The 
hindmost  were  dodging  pursuers ;  one  or  two  were 
taken ;  but  before  there  was  time  to  watch  the  last, 
the  first  had  reported:  the  lines  of  riders  and  the 
guns  whipped  round  and  moved  briskly  back  towards 
the  road  and  the  defile. 

A  belch  of  smoke  from  the  plain  and  a  muffled 
thud,  another,  another:  the  superior  force's  guns  had 
seen  the  retreating  masses  and  opened  fire.  Then  a 
grating  bang  close  by  :  the  opposing  battery  had  un- 
limbered  and  was  replying.  But  that  will  not  do  for 
long  when  you  are  retreating  with  calvary  at  your 
heels  :  after  two  or  three  rounds  the  teams  clattered 
up,  the  guns  swung  round,  and  were  ofF  again ;  and 
the  next  thing  was  that  the  plain  was  black  with  the 
advancing  squadrons  of  the  stronger  side,  and  the 
weaker  had  disappeared  off  the  earth. 

Slowly,  cautiously,  the  attackers  crept  up,  straining 
their  eyes,  moving  behind  huts  or  hillocks,  edging  off 
flankwards  among  trees.  They  had  need  of  all  their 

44 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

caution :  a  squadron  was  moving  across  the  front 
along  the  road  when — crack,  crack,  crack-k-kle — dis- 
mounted squadrons  were  firing  at  it  from  the  embank- 
ment on  both  sides  of  the  bridge.  The  guns  opened, 
too,  from  beyond  the  line.  The  weaker  force  was 
there,  prepared  to  show  his  teeth.  The  thing  to  do 
was  to  contain  his  fire  with  artillery  and  dismounted 
men,  and  then  slam  in  the  rest  of  cavalry  through  the 
defile.  In  the  mouth  of  the  bridge  we  waited  and 
waited ;  but  for  the  carbine-fire  on  the  line  the  place 
seemed  empty.  Then  suddenly  on  the  attacking 
side  guns  appeared  behind  the  mounds,  separated 
into  teams  and  pieces,  and  fired.  Khaki  figures 
were  kneeling  under  cover  on  either  side  the  guns, 
firing.  The  whole  place  was  a  roar  and  a  rattle — 
till  dashed  out  a  cloud  of  wild  horsemen,  tossing 
lance-points,  flying  puggaris,  steaming  towards  the 
bridge. 

Now  !  Beyond  the  bridge  the  dismounted  squad- 
rons of  the  defenders  were  hurrying  down  the  bank 
to  their  horses.  For  the  rest,  the  plain  seemed  empty. 
The  head  of  the  on-coming  lancers  thrust  through 
the  bridge,  and  swung  rightward  in  a  lengthening 
column.  But  all  in  an  instant  a  squadron  in  line 
burst  from  behind  the  ruined  walls,  then  another,  and 
bore  down  at  a  thundering  gallop.  The  first  met  the 
first  squadron  of  the  assailants,  which  had  wheeled 
into  line ;  the  second  caught  the  second  squadron  still 
in  column,  and  would  have  crumpled  it  up.  Now 
45 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

more  and  more  riders  were  pouring  through  the  defile, 
more  pouring  down  to  meet  them. 

Cease  fire  !  It  is  the  annoying  thing  about  ma- 
noeuvres that  they  have  to  stop  just  at  the  exciting 
point.  All  you  could  say  of  this  fight  was  that  in 
real  life  the  best  men  would  probably  have  won.  So 
now  back  to  lunch  in  the  sumptuous  mess-tent  of  a 
hussar  regiment.  Think  of  it !  War  till  lunch-time 
— then  pate-de-foie-gras,  champagne,  and  ladies.  In 
the  afternoon  the  Southern  Division  went  through 
the  same  exercise,  only  this  time  it  was  the  superior 
force  dismounted  men  on  the  bank,  and  hammered 
away  with  carbines  and  with  guns — at  nothing.  Of 
the  defenders,  not  one  sign  !  The  assailants  came 
through  and  deployed — one  squadron  straight  forward, 
one  half-right,  one  half-left.  Still  nothing ;  till,  all  at 
once — bang,  bang,  bang  ! — three  guns,  wide  apart, 
fired  full  into  the  centre  squadron,  and  the  plain 
came  to  life.  At  each  squadron  that  had  come 
through  galloped  a  squadron  from  out  of  the  trees. 
The  arena  was  a  thunder  of  hoofs,  a  criss-cross  of 
rigid  lines — khaki,  blue,  crimson,  steel — hurling  them- 
selves straight  at  each  other  from  every  point ;  then 
— cease  fire  ! 

Again  the  best  men  would  have  won,  though  the 
first  squadron  through  would  have  been  knocked  to 
pieces.  But  the  next  day  we  won — we  all  won — for 
we  were  the  British-India  army  fighting  an  imaginary 
enemy.  On  each  flank  of  a  ridge  one  division  formed 

46 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

up.  Guns  opened  from  our  ridge  and  from  the 
enemy's  opposite ;  in  the  dip  between  our  infantry 
and  theirs  were  seen  mutually  advancing  with  a  splut- 
ter of  fire.  The  idea  was  that  the  Russians — I  mean 
the  enemy — were  too  strong  for  our  infantry  and 
guns,  and  that  the  cavalry  was  to  retrieve  the  day : 
what  more  congenial  ?  The  left  flank  division  was 
to  get  behind  the  enemy's  right  rear,  take  his  guns, 
crumple  up  his  reserves,  and  then  come  on  to  support 
the  right  division,  which  was  meanwhile  to  crumple 
up  his  cavalry  and  then  pursue.  A  few  minutes  we 
watched  the  skeleton  infantry  blaze  away ;  then  the 
cavalry  went.  Going  forward  to  the  enemy's  left,  we 
saw  the  troopers  of  our  leftward  division  galloping  up 
behind  his  right  flank — single  riders,  groups,  lines 
black  and  fast  and  terrible  filling  up  the  ground. 
Then  came  our  right  division  at  the  charge  against 
the  flags  that  marked  the  imaginary  squadrons — officers 
well  ahead,  dark  masses  behind  them  extending  and 
quickening,  extending  and  quickening,  over  rock  and 
furrow  and  fissure.  Then  a  furious  thudding — and 
they  were  on  us,  manes  flying,  horse-heads  tossing, 
knife-edged  shrieks  from  the  sowars  and  breathless 
"  Damns  !  "  from  the  British — a  thunder,  a  whirl,  a 
cloud  of  dust — and  they  were  tearing  up  the  earth  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  beyond.  It  was  as  thick  and  yellow 
with  dust  as  a  London  fog :  you  were  lost  in  it — and 
then,  before  you  could  see  ten  yards,  another  thunder. 
The  other  division  whirlwinded  past  in  support  and 

47 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

pursuit — an  overtaking  blur  in  the  dust-fog,  a  rushing 
phantom  of  manes  and  leaping  puggaris  and  gleaming 
white  eyeballs,  and  then  a  diminishing  thunder  in  the 
dust  again. 

In  the  pursuit  I  should  prefer  to  be  on  the  side  of 
the  British-India  cavalry. 

That  was  the  last  day  of  active  operations.  For 
the  wind-up  there  was  a  grand  open-air  Military 
Tournament  between  the  camps,  with  jumps,  and 
tent-pegging,  and  guns  minuetting  at  the  gallop, 
and  all  the  other  joys ;  also — lest  they  forget — native 
women  peeping  through  the  closed  shutters  of  car- 
riages, and  native  men  standing  on  their  horses  to 
see  over  the  crowd.  It  was  all  very  fine  and  enjoy- 
able— only  to  read  it  now  you  naturally  think  it  a 
little  dull.  Perhaps;  but  still  you  may  be  glad  to 
know  what  the  British  army — the  real  British  army 
— looks  like  and  does  and  is  in  the  country  where  it 
exists  for  business.  For  to  find  the  real  British  army 
you  must  go  to  India.  Thousands  of  our  people  at 
home  pass  their  lives  without  ever  seeing  a  soldier, 
millions  without  ever  seeing  a  brigade.  Perhaps  one 
in  ten  thousand  of  home-keeping  Britons  has  seen 
more  than  one  regiment  of  cavalry  together.  India  is 
otherwise.  Here  also,  it  is  true,  there  are  broad 
countries — Bengal,  for  instance,  with  three-fourths  of 
the  area  of  France,  and  nearly  twice  the  population 
of  the  British  Isles — which  hardly  ever  see  a  bayonet 
or  a  lance.  But  to  other  districts — the  great  canton- 

48 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

ments  and  the  garrisons  of  the  North- West  Frontier 
— the  sight  of  regiments  and  brigades  is  as  familiar  as 
that  of  policemen  to  you. 

So  that  it  was  nothing  for  India  to  have  twelve 
regiments  of  cavalry,  with  four  batteries  of  horse 
artillery,  assembled  for  the  camp  of  exercise.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  assemble  this  force  in  England — 
there  only  are  fourteen  regiments  in  Great  Britain — 
and  when  it  was  assembled  it  would  have  no  room  to 
move ;  even  Salisbury  Plain  hardly  supplies  recon- 
noitring ground  for  a  single  day.  But  the  whole  of 
Northern  India  consists  of  one  single  alluvial  plain, 
nearly  as  large  as  France,  Germany,  and  Austria  put 
together,  with  hardly  a  hill  and  hardly  a  stone 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  it.  You  can 
find  tracts  as  large  as  English  countries  with  scarcely 
a  crop  to  ride  over.  Not  that  crops  would  stop  the 
manoeuvres,  or  anything  else;  for  in  India  the  army 
is  taken  seriously. 

If  you  do  not  find  good  cavalry  and  lifelike  cavalry 
manoeuvres  in  India,  therefore,  you  may  despair  of 
British  military  organisation  at  once.  But  you  do  find 
them.  Every  year  the  Inspector-General  of  Cavalry 
fixes  the  time  when  regiments  are  marching  across 
country  changing  stations,  selects  his  force,  and  then 
sets  them  to  march  at  each  other.  This  year  part  of 
the  force  took  the  field  at  Umballa  and  part  at 
Aligarh — two  hundred  miles  apart.  By  easy  marches, 
but  making  up  good  days'  work  with  manoeuvres  by 

49 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

the  way,  they  converged  on  Delhi.  When  the  South- 
ern Division  was  within  a  dozen  miles  or  so  of  the 
city,  it  was  met  by  a  skeleton  force  holding  a  village 
and  railway  junction,  which  it  had  to  dislodge.  Next 
day  the  Northern  regiments  were  reconnoitred  by  a 
similar  skeleton  force,  which  it  was  their  business  to 
push  back  without  revealing  their  strength.  The  day 
after  that  the  two  divisions  came  into  collision  and 
fought,  after  which  each  went  into  standing  camp. 
Next  came  another  couple  of  engagements  between 
them;  then  the  two  fights  at  the  defile  you  have  just 
heard  of;  then  the  combined  attack  on  the  skeleton 
enemy.  Upon  each  day's  operations  the  Inspector- 
General  delivered  brief  but  complete  criticisms. 
Everything  was  business-like,  thorough ;  in  India — 
except  perhaps  in  the  Government  offices — they 
realise  that  the  army  exists  to  fight,  and  give  their 
minds  to  fit  it  for  fighting. 

You  would  be  surprised  to  find  how  much  thinking 
out,  and  what  lightning-rapid  thinking  out,  a  cavalry 
action  requires.  It  is  not  at  all  just  a  matter  of  slam- 
ming your  men  at  the  enemy,  and  hoping  they  will  be 
too  good  for  him.  For  instance,  if  your  cavalry  is 
masking  your  own  guns  while  your  enemy's  are  knock- 
ing holes  out  of  your  line  just  before  the  moment  of 
collision,  the  best  men  in  the  world  will  be  hardly 
good  enough  for  the  worst.  Points  like  this  will  take 
a  deal  of  study,  and  it  seems  that  even  now  there  is 
room  for  new  ideas.  The  Inspector-General's  is  that 

50 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

cavalry  advancing  in  three  lines  ought  to  throw  their 
guns  right  forward.  It  sounds  almost  blasphemous  to 
put  precious,  tender  guns  in  the  forefront  of  every- 
thing. But  then  you  must  remember  that  horse  artil- 
lery can  move  quickly,  if  necessary,  and  especially 
that  cavalry  can  move  quickly  enough  to  come  up  in 
effective  support  at  the  shortest  notice  of  danger ;  and 
the  forward  position  of  the  guns  may  give  vast  advan- 
tages. The  guns  that  are  up  in  front  are  likely  to 
come  first  into  action,  and  may  cripple,  sometimes 
actually  defeat,  the  enemy  before  he  can  retaliate. 
They  are  more  likely  to  have  him  in  effective  range 
at  the  moment  when  the  cavalry  shock  comes.  Espe- 
cially this  formation  may  often  give  the  leader  who 
adopts  it  the  choice  of  ground.  Suppose  your  enemy 
gets  into  attack  formation  on  the  left  of  his  guns,  you 
will  probably  move  forward  your  cavalry  to  the  left  of 
your  own  guns.  Then  the  enemy  can  only  get  at 
you  either  by  moving  across  behind  his  guns  under 
fire  of  yours,  or  else  in  front  of  them,  and  masking 
them  while  you  pound  him.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
the  ground  suits  you  better  on  the  right  of  the  guns, 
you  move  to  that  side :  in  any  case  you  dictate  the 
ground. 

That  is  the  theory ;  it  must  take  a  quick  eye  and  a 
quick  hand  to  bring  it  successfully  into  practice.  With 
the  view  of  giving  officers  the  best  chance  of  bringing 
off  such  rapid  movements,  the  new  idea  in  India  is 
that  the  commander  should  ride  well  to  the  front  of 

51 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

his  main  body,  and  with  him  the  leaders  of  his  three 
lines  of  cavalry  and  of  his  artillery.  When  the  en- 
emy's strength,  formation,  and  line  of  advance  are 
observed,  there  is  still  time  for  these  leaders  to  gallop 
back  to  their  men  with  verbal  orders  from  the  com- 
mander; which,  having  seen  the  enemy  at  his  side, 
they  are  certain  to  understand.  The  commander  re- 
mains in  front  to  see  whether  the  enemy  changes  his 
tactics  at  the  last  moment ;  if  he  does,  the  subordinate 
leaders,  having  seen,  are  still  in  a  better  position  to 
understand  their  final  orders. 

Another  point  insisted  on  is  the  importance  of  send- 
ing forward  selected  officers  on  selected  horses  to  ob- 
serve the  enemy  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 
Your  ordinary  eye  might  not  take  in  the  situation 
instantly  ;  your  ordinary  horse  might  be  caught  by  the 
enemy.  As  the  advanced  patrols  are  the  eyes  of  the 
cavalry,  and  the  cavalry  is  the  eye  of  the  whole  army, 
you  cannot  have  men  or  beasts  too  good  for  such 
work. 

For  example,  they  must  usually  be  British  officers. 
The  native  officer,  with  all  his  many  fine  qualities,  has 
not,  as  a  rule,  the  trained  intelligence,  observation,  and 
self-control  necessary  for  such  work.  It  has  been 
urged  by  a  few  good  judges,  and  many  bad  ones,  that 
the  present  status  of  the  native  officers  is  unsatisfac- 
tory, because  they  have  no  opportunities  of  rising  to 
the  highest  commissioned  ranks.  At  the  time  of  the 
camp  of  exercise  we  were  hearing  a  good  deal  of  this 

52 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

from  London  and  Calcutta,  but  not,  curiously,  from 
the  native  regiments  at  Delhi.  The  complaint  is 
loudest — need  it  be  said  ? — among  Bengalis,  who  do 
not,  and  never  will,  furnish  a  single  native  officer  or 
sepoy  to  the  whole  Indian  army.  The  manlier  races 
make  no  such  claim  for  themselves :  the  native  officer 
is  content  with  his  present  position,  and  finds  his 
present  duties  sufficiently  honourable  and  responsible. 
Three  distinctions  the  native  officer  receives,  and 
dearly  prizes,  from  his  white  superior.  The  Briton 
shakes  hands  with  him — it  breaks  a  Hindu's  caste,  but 
still  he  likes  it — calls  him  Sahib,  and  acknowledges 
his  right  to  sit  on  a  chair.  He  can  rise  to  resaldar-  or 
subadar-major,  which  is  a  grade  between  captain  and 
major.  In  the  cavalry — where  prompt  and  unswerv- 
ing decision  is  especially  required — the  squadrons  are 
led  by  Europeans ;  the  company  commanders  of  the 
infantry  are  native  subadars.  With  these  privileges 
and  duties,  the  fighting  races — being  simple-minded, 
and  conceiving  the  British  to  be  in  most  points  a 
superior  race — are  well  satisfied.  The  Prime  Minis- 
ter of  Nepal  has  actually  made  it  a  condition  of  the 
supply  of  Ghurka  recruits  that  they  must  always  be 
led  by  Englishmen. 

It  is  true  that  the  limited  field  of  ambition  may  dis- 
incline some  of  the  best  elements  among  the  ruling 
classes  from  the  military  career,  which  would  be  their 
natural  vocation.  But  the  general  view  appears  to  be 
that  this  is  inevitable.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  none  so 

53 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

certain  that  the  ruling  classes  want  commissions.  The 
flower  of  Indian  chivalry,  the  Rajputs,  certainly  prefer 
the  soldiering  they  get  in  their  own  Imperial  Service 
Corps  to  a  life  which,  after  all,  whatever  prospects 
might  be  opened  to  native  officers,  must  always  bring 
them  into  direct  subordination  to  a  British  officer  of 
one  rank  or  another.  A  maharajah  will  usually  be 
loath  to  obey  even  a  major-general.  The  practical 
difficulties,  too,  would  be  great,  not  to  say  insuperable. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  mix  British  and  native  officers 
in  one  regiment ;  when  a  man's  religion  forbids  him 
to  eat  with  you  or  touch  your  hand,  it  must  needs 
militate  against  corporate  spirit  in  a  mess.  To  officer 
battalions  and  regiments  wholly  with  natives  would  be 
equally  difficult :  the  more  warlike  races  have  not  as 
yet  made  much  progress  in  education,  and  they  are  apt 
to  lose  their  heads  in  action  through  untempered  gal- 
lantry. Left  to  himself,  the  native  officer  will  some- 
times forget  to  give  his  men  the  range,  or  charge  at 
large  on  sight.  With  British  officers  he  remains  cool, 
having  no  more  responsibility  than  he  is  equal  to,  and 
plays  an  invaluable  part.  You  must  remember  that 
fighting  in  these  latter  days  is  becoming  as  complex  as 
quadratic  equations,  with  a  good  deal  more  to  flurry 
the  operator.  When  a  Sikh  or  a  Pathan  or  a  Ghurka 
passes  into  Sandhurst  it  will  be  time  to  consider  the 
question  further. 

Certainly  the  native  officers  did  not  look  a  discon- 
tented class.     As  they  marched  past  Sir  George  Luck 

54 


The  Camp  of  Exercise 

at  the  end  of  the  manoeuvres,  stiff  yet  easy  in  'the 
saddle,  and  flashed  their  tulwars  in  the  salute,  they 
bristled  with  pride  in  their  position — behind  the  sahibs, 
ahead  of  the  men. 


55 


VII 
DELHI 

DELHI  is  the  most  historic  city  in  all  historic  India. 
It  may  not  be  the  oldest — who  shall  say  which  is  the 
oldest  among  rivals  all  coeval  with  time  ? — though  it 
puts  in  a  claim  for  a  respectable  middle-age,  dating 
from  1000  B.  c.  or  so.  It  has  at  least  one  authentic 
monument  which  is  certainly  fourteen  or  fifteen  hun- 
dred years  old.  At  that  time  Delhi's  master  called 
himself  Emperor  of  the  World,  and  emperors,  at  least 
of  India,  have  ruled  there  almost  ever  since.  Mo- 
hammed, an  Afghan  of  Ghor,  took  it  in  1 193 ;  Tam- 
erlane, the  Mogul,  sacked  it  two  hundred  years  later ; 
Nadir  Shah,  the  Persian,  in  1739;  Ahmed  Shah 
Durani,  another  Afghan,  in  1756  ;  the  Marathas  took 
it  three  years  later.  Half  a  century  on,  in  1803, 
General  Lake  took  the  capital  of  India  for  Britain. 
And  British  it  has  been  ever  since — except  for  those 
few  months  in  1857,  wnen  tne  Mutiny  brought  the 
ghost  of  the  Mogul  empire  into  the  semblance  of  life 
again ;  till  Nicholson  stormed  the  breach  in  the  Kash- 
mir Bastion,  and  dyed  Delhi  British  for  ever  with  his 
blood. 

Look  from  the  Ridge,  whence  the  columns  marched 
56 


Delhi 

out  to  that  last  capture  :  the  battered  trophy  of  so 
many  conquerors  remains  wonderfully  fresh  and  fair. 
It  seems  more  like  a  wood  than  a  city.  The  rolls  of 
green  are  only  spangled  with  white,  as  if  it  were  a 
suburb  of  villas  standing  in  orchards.  Only  the 
snowy  domes  and  tall  minarets,  the  cupolas  and  gilded 
pinnacles,  betray  the  still  great  and  populous  city  that 
nestles  below  you  and  takes  breath  after  her  thousand 
troubles. 

Yet  Delhi  is  still  seamed  with  the  scars  of  her 
spoilers,  and  still  jewelled  with  remnants  of  the  gems 
they  fought  for.  If  you  take  them  in  order,  you  will 
go  first,  not  into  the  city,  but  eleven  miles  south,  to 
the  tower  Kutb  Minar.  Through  the  dust  of  the 
road,  rising  out  of  the  springing  wheat,  among  the 
mud-and-mat  huts  before  which  squat  the  brown- 
limbed  peasants,  you  see  the  country  a  litter  of  broken 
walls,  tumbling  towers,  rent  domes.  There  are  frag- 
ments of  seven  cities  built  by  seven  kings  before  the 
present  Delhi  was.  Eleven  miles  of  them  bring  you 
to  the  tower  and  mosque  of  Kutb. 

Kutb-ed-Din  was  a  slave  who  raised  himself  to 
Viceroy  of  Delhi  when  the  Mussulmans  took  it,  then 
to  Emperor  of  Hindustan  and  founder  of  a  dynasty. 
Whether  he  or  his  son  or  the  last  of  the  Hindu  kings 
built  the  tower,  antiquaries  are  undecided  and  others 
careless.  It  is  enough  that  here  is  one  landmark  in 
Delhi's  history,  one  splendid  monument  reared  for  a 
symbol  of  triumph  by  a  victor  whom  now  nobody  can 

57 


Delhi 

certainly  identify.  It  is  a  colossal,  five-storeyed  tower, 
two  hundred  and  forty  feet  high,  of  nearly  fifty  feet 
diameter  at  the  base,  and  tapering  to  nine  feet  at  the 
top.  Tiny  balconies  with  balustrades  mark  the  junc- 
tions of  the  storeys :  the  three  lower  are  red  stone, 
the  two  upper — dwarfed  just  under  the  sky — faced 
with  white  marble.  All  the  red  part  is  fluted  into  al- 
ternate semicircles  and  right  angles,  netted  all  over 
with  tracery,  and  belted  with  inscriptions  under  the 
balconies.  But  the  details  strike  you  little :  the  ver- 
tical lines  of  the  fluting  only  give  the  impression  that 
this  is  one  huge  pillar  with  a  red  shaft  and  a  white 
capital — a  pillar  that  might  form  part  of  the  most  tre- 
mendous temple  in  the  world,  yet  stands  quite  seemly 
alone  by  reason  of  its  surpassing  bigness. 

Pant  to  the  top.  It  will  do  you  good,  though  the 
view  is  nothing.  The  country  is  an  infinite  green- 
and-brown  chess-board  of  young  corn  and  fallow, 
dead-flat  on  every  side,  ugly  with  the  complacent 
plainness  of  all  very  rich  country.  Beyond  the 
sheeny  ribbon  of  the  Jumna,  north,  south,  east,  west, 
into  the  blurred  horizon,  you  can  see  only  land  and 
land  and  land — a  million  acres  with  nothing  on  them 
to  see — except  the  wealth  of  India  and  the  secret  of 
the  greatness  of  Delhi. 

Then  look  down  past  your  toes  and  you  will  see 
the  evidence  of  some  of  Delhi's  falls.  From  the 
ground  you  will  have  noticed  ruins  about  you ;  but 
there  the  Kutb  Minar  dwarfs  everything.  Now  .you 

58 


Delhi 

see  that  you  stand  above  a  field  of  broken  arches,  soli- 
tary pillars,  stumps  of  towers,  and  in  the  middle  of 
what  must  once  have  been  a  town  of  mosques  and 
tombs.  Before  it  was  that,  it  was  a  town  of  Hindu 
temples  and  palaces.  In  the  court  of  the  ruined 
mosque  stands  a  solid  wrought-iron  pillar — little 
enough  to  look  at,  but  curious,  because  it  is  at  least 
fifteen  hundred  years  old,  and  there  is  nothing  else 
quite  like  it  in  the  world.  It  bears  a  Sanskrit  inscrip- 
tion to  the  effect  that  this  is  "  the  Arm  of  Fame  of 
Raja  Dhava,  who  conquered  his  neighbours  and  won 
the  undivided  sovereignty  of  the  earth." 

Poor  Raja  Dhava !  The  temples  of  generations 
that  had  already  forgotten  him  are  swept  utterly  away ; 
the  mosque  of  their  conquerors  stands  now  only  as  a 
few  shattered  red  arches  and  pillars  with  defaced  flow- 
ers wilting  on  them.  Beyond  that  is  the  base  of  what 
was  once  to  be  a  tower  more  than  twice  as  high  as 
the  Kutb  Minar,  but  was  never  even  finished.  The 
very  tower  you  stand  on  has  been  buffeted  by  earth- 
quake, and  great  part  of  it  is  mere  restoration.  And 
Delhi,  which  in  the  year  One  stood  here,  has  drifted 
away  almost  out  of  sight  from  the  summit  and  left 
these  forlorn  fragments  to  decay  without  even  the 
consolation  of  neighbourhood. 

Poets  and  preachers  have  already  pointed  the  neces- 
sary moral :  let  us  go  back  to  the  city.  Here  at  least 
is  the  Jumma  Musjid,  the  great  mosque,  saved  com- 
plete out  of  the  storms — a  baby  of  little  more  than 
59 


Delhi 

two  hundred  years,  to  be  sure,  but  still  something. 
It  is  said  to  be  the  largest  mosque  in  the  world — 
a  vast  stretch  of  red  sandstone  and  white  marble  and 
gold  upstanding  from  a  platform  reached  on  three 
sides  by  flights  of  steps  so  tall,  so  majestically  wide, 
that  they  are  like  a  stone  mountain  tamed  into  order 
and  proportion  at  an  emperor's  will.  Above  the 
brass-mounted  doors  rise  red  portals  so  huge  that  they 
almost  dwarf  the  whole — red  galleries  above  them, 
white  marble  domes  above  them,  white  marble  min- 
arets rising  higher  yet,  with  pillars  and  cupolas  and 
gilded  pinnacles  above  all.  Beside  the  gateways  the 
walls  of  the  quadrangle  seem  to  creep  along  the 
ground ;  then,  at  the  corners,  rise  towers  with  more 
open  chambers,  more  cupolas  and  gilded  pinnacles. 
Within,  above  the  cloistered  quadrangle,  bulge  three 
pure  white  domes — not  hemispheres,  like  Western 
domes,  but  complete  globes,  only  sliced  away  at  the 
base  and  tapering  to  a  spike  at  the  top — and  a 
slender  minaret  flanks  each  side. 

The  whole,  to  Western  eyes,  has  a  strange  effect. 
Our  own  buildings  are  tighter  together,  gripped 
and  focused  more  in  one  glance;  over  the  Jumma 
Musjid  your  eye  must  wander,  and  then  the  mind 
must  connect  the  views  of  the  different  parts.  If 
you  look  at  it  near  you  cannot  see  it  all;  if  far,  it  is 
low  and  seems  to  straggle.  The  West  could  hardly 
call  it  beautiful :  it  has  proportion,  but  not  compass. 
Therefore  it  does  not  abase  you,  as  other  great  build- 

60 


Delhi 

ings  do:  somehow  you  have  a  feeling  of  patronage 
towards  it.  Yet  it  is  most  light  and  graceful  with  all 
its  bulk :  it  seems  to  suit  India,  thus  spread  out  to  get 
its  fill  of  the  warm  sun.  It  looks  rich  and  lavish,  as 
if  space  were  of  no  account  to  it. 

Between  this  mosque  and  the  Jumna  river  stands 
the  fort — the  ancient  stronghold  and  palace  of  the 
Mogul  emperors.  A  towering  wall  encloses  it, 
Titanic  slabs,  always  of  the  same  red  sandstones, 
moated  and  battlemented.  You  go  in  under  the  great 
Lahore  Gate — its  massiveness  is  lightened  by  more 
domes  and  arches,  more  gilt  and  marble  on  top  of  it, 
— you  come  in — alas  and  alas  ! — to  barracks  and  mar- 
ried quarters  and  commissariat  stores.  You  look  for 
turquoised  hubble-bubbles,  and  you  find  the  clay  of 
Private  Atkins.  It  is  disillusion,  and  yet  it  is  very 
Delhi.  The  remains  of  Aurungzebe's  palaces  are 
lost  among  the  imperial  plant  of  Aurungzebe's  in- 
heritors. 

Yet  search  diligently  for  the  remains;  since,  ex- 
cept in  Agra,  you  will  never  find  anything  like  it  in 
the  world.  You  come  first  to  the  Hall  of  Audience, 
an  open  redstone  portico  with  a  wall  at  its  back,  and 
are  about  to  pass  it.  The  gleam  of  marble  arrests 
you.  Within,  against  the  wall,  is  a  slab  of  white 
marble ;  above  it  a  throne  of  the  same  with  pillars 
and  canopy.  But  it  is  not  the  marble  you  look  at — 
it  is  the  wonderful  work  that  veins  it ;  the  throne  is 
embroidered  with  mosaic.  And  the  wall  behind  is  a 

61 


Delhi 

sheet  of  miniature  pictures — birds  and  flowers  and 
fruit — all  picked  out  in  paint  and  precious  stones. 
You  marvel,  but  pass  on  to  the  Hall  of  Private 
Audience.  Then,  indeed,  your  breath  catches  with 
amazement. 

It  is  an  open,  oblong  portico  or  pavilion  on 
columns,  with  an  arched  and  domed  squarer  pavilion 
beside  it,  whence  a  bay-window  steps  out  of  the  wall 
to  look  over  the  swamps  and  the  river  below.  The 
whole  is  all  white  marble  asheen  in  the  sun,  but  that  is 
the  least  part  of  the  wonder.  Walls  and  ceilings, 
pillars  and  many-pointed  arches,  are  all  inlaid  with 
richest,  yet  most  delicate,  colour.  Gold  cornices  and 
scrolls  and  lattices  frame  traceries  of  mauve  and  pale 
green  and  soft  azure.  What  must  it  have  been,  you 
ask  yourself,  when  the  peacock  throne  blazed  with 
emerald  and  sapphire,  ruby  and  diamond,  from  the 
now  empty  pedestal,  and  the  plates  of  burnished  silver 
reflected  its  glories  from  the  roof?  The  Marathas 
melted  down  the  ceiling,  and  Nadir  Shah  took  away 
the  throne  to  Persia ;  yet,  even  as  it  is,  the  opulence 
of  it  leaves  you  gasping.  It  is  not  gaudy,  does  not 
even  astonish  you  with  its  costliness  :  it  is  simply 
sumptuous  and  luxurious,  surpassing  all  your  dreams. 

After  this  chaste  magnificence  you  may  refresh 
your  eye  with  the  yet  purer  beauty  of  the  Moti 
Musjid,  the  Pearl  Mosque — a  fabric  smaller  than  a 
racquet-court,  walled  with  cool  grey-veined  marble, 
blotched  here  and  there  blood-red.  Just  a  court  of 

62 


Delhi 

walls  moulded  in  a  low  relief,  with  a  double  row  of 
three  arches  supporting  a  triple-domed  roof  at  its  end 
— simple,  spotless,  exquisite. 

You  have  passed  below  the  cloud-capped  towers, 
out  of  the  gorgeous  palaces — and  here  is  Silver  Street, 
Delhi's  main  thoroughfare.  The  pageant  fades,  and 
you  plunge  into  the  dense  squalor  which  is  also  India. 
Along  the  houses  run  balconies  and  colonnades ;  here 
also  you  see  vistas  of  pillars  and  lattice-work,  but  the 
stone  is  dirty,  the  stucco  peels,  the  wood  lacks  paint. 
The  houses  totter  and  lean  together.  The  street  is  a 
mass  of  squatting,  variegated  people;  bulls,  in  neck- 
laces of  white  and  yellow  flowers,  sleep  across  the 
pavements,  donkeys  stroll  into  the  shops,  goats  nibble 
at  the  vegetables  piled  for  sale  down  the  centre  of  the 
street,  a  squirrel  is  fighting  with  a  caged  parrot.  Here 
is  a  jeweller's  booth,  gay  with  tawdry  paint ;  next, 
a  baker's,  with  the  shopkeeper  snoring  on  his  low 
counter,  and  everything  an  inch  thick  with  dust. 
At  one  step  you  smell  incense;  at  the  next,  gar- 
bage. 

Inimitable,  incongruous  India !  And  coming  out 
of  the  walls,  still  crumbling  from  Nicholson's  cannon, 
you  see  mill-chimneys  blackening  the  sky.  Delhi, 
with  local  cotton,  they  tell  you,  can  spin  as  fine 
as  Manchester.  One  more  incongruity  !  The  iron 
pillar,  the  ruined  mosque,  the  jewelled  halls,  the 
shabby  street,  and  now  the  clacking  mill.  That  is 
the  last  of  Delhi's  myriad  reincarnations. 

63 


VIII 
CALCUTTA 

THERE  are  three  Calcuttas — the  winter  capital  of 
India,  the  metropolis  of  the  largest  white  population 
in  the  country,  and  the  tightest-packed  human  sardine- 
tin  known  outside  China. 

As  you  see  it  first,  it  is  the  only  British  town  in 
India.  Both  as  seat  of  Government  and  centre  of 
European  population  it  has  taken  on  an  English  as- 
pect, which  you  do  not  find  elsewhere.  Not  only  are 
buildings  English,  but  they  are  English  buildings  of 
good  standing.  The  prevalent  style  is  eighteenth- 
century  classical ;  the  colour  is  the  buff-white  of  Re- 
gent Street.  As  a  matter  of  history,  the  houses  are 
adaptations  of  Italian  and  Sicilian  models ;  but  they 
look  Greek.  Almost  every  one  has  its  portico,  its 
Doric  or  Ionic  pillars,  its  balustraded  roof.  In  the 
filthiest  native  quarters  you  will  come  on  such  houses, 
grimy,  peeling,  tumbling  to  pieces — the  homes  of  for- 
gotten sahibs,  now  forlorn  islands  in  a  lapping  sea  of 
bamboo  shanties.  Calcutta,  you  can  see,  has  not 
merely  a  history — every  town  in  India  has  that — but 
a  British  history. 

Its  history,  indeed,  and  its  greatness  are  all  British, 
64 


Calcutta 

wherein  it  is  unique  among  Indian  cities.  It  is  not 
the  cradle  of  British  India :  the  cradle  was  Surat, 
which  was  opened  to  British  trade  in  1612,  and  in 
the  Imperial  Library  at  Calcutta  you  reverence,  as  the 
oldest  archives  of  British  India,  the  letters  of  the 
Surat  factors.  To  the  profane  mind  the  most  natural 
touch  is  found  in  the  list  of  them,  wherein  an  unfor- 
tunate, otherwise  obscure,  Val  Hearst,  is  branded  to 
eternity  as  "  drinking  sott." 

It  was  in  1687  that  the  Company  came  to  Calcutta, 
and  named  Fort  William  after  the  Dutch  king  who 
came  two  years  later.  In  those  days,  and  long  after, 
distinction  between  the  imperial  and  commercial  was 
not :  despatches  then  were  letters  from  "  the  gentle- 
men at  Fort  St.  David's,"  and  the  administrator  who 
now  becomes  an  Honourable  Member  of  Council  then 
aspired  to  the  office  of  Export  Warehouse-keeper. 
Only  in  1774,  when  Warren  Hastings  became  first 
Governor-General  of  Bengal,  with  a  vague  superin- 
tendence over  Madras  and  Bombay,  did  Calcutta  begin 
to  be  imperial. 

The  year  before  Fort  William  had  been  finished, 
and  still  remains — a  ludicrous  anachronism  now,  for 
what  need  could  there  be  of  a  fort  in  Bengal  ? — but 
an  imposing  document  of  Anglo-Indian  history.  An 
octagon  of  fosse  and  grass-grown  rampart,  bastion  and 
curtain  and  sally-port,  with  the  Governor's  buff-white 
Georgian  house  standing  up  out  of  it — it  remains  to 
remind  you  of  what  nowadays  you  might  easily  for- 

65  ^ 


Calcutta 

get :  there  lived  strong  men  before  the  North-West 
Frontier. 

The  other  later  public  buildings  of  Calcutta  are 
neither  few  nor  mean,  but  they  hardly  do  themselves 
justice.  They  either  hide  behind  trees  or  else  they 
step  forward  on  to  your  toes,  so  that  you  must  rick 
your  neck  to  look  at  them.  Government  House  is 
in  the  fashion.  From  the  high  rails  and  sentries  you 
infer  that  something  important  is  within  ;  but  unless 
you  chance  to  turn  your  head  in  the  right  direction 
from  the  Maidan — Calcutta's  park — you  might  live  in 
the  place  for  weeks  and  never  see  what  it  was.  But 
when  you  see  it,  it  is  plainly  a  king's  palace.  De- 
signed, as  everybody  now  knows,  after  Kedleston  Hall, 
which  Adams  built,  the  imitation  was  begun  by  Lord 
Wellesley  exactly  a  hundred  years  ago  :  at  the  time 
the  Directors  of  the  East  India  Company  were  pain- 
fully shocked  at  his  extravagance.  Government 
House  stands  in  a  garden  full  of  lawns  and  tall  trees. 
From  the  central  building,  which  is  crowned  by  a 
truncated  dome,  radiate  galleries  connecting  with  four 
wings ;  so  that  the  impression  of  the  house  from  either 
side  is  of  a  light  buff  semicircle  with  Ionic  columns 
and  a  porch  in  the  centre,  and  similar  columns  out- 
lining the  wings.  To  the  porch  of  the  main  entrance 
you  go,  a  couchant  sphinx  on  either  side,  up  a  double 
flight  of  steps,  imperially  wide;  the  impression  of 
solidity  combined  with  lightness  is  distantly  suggestive 
of  the  Capitol  at  Washington.  Left  and  right  of  this 

66 


Calcutta 

staircase  shoot  two  tufted  palms  with  ivy  clinging 
round  their  trunks — England  and  India  intertwining. 
Left  and  right  and  in  front  are  antique  cannon  on  pale 
blue  carriages ;  that  in  the  middle  rests  between  the 
wings  of  a  dragon. 

South  of  the  proconsulate  spreads  the  Maidan, 
which  is  Arabic  and  Persian  and  Hindustani  for  a  flat 
open  space.  To  the  profane  mind  the  broad  expanses 
of  burnt  grass — about  a  mile  and  a  half  square — sug- 
gest Clapham  Common  in  August ;  but  the  Maidan  is 
much  more.  At  one  corner  is  a  racecourse,  else- 
where tennis-courts,  golf-links,  bicycle-tracks,  cricket- 
pitches,  riding-roads.  It  is  an  exercise-ground  for 
horses  and  dogs,  a  playground  for  children,  and  a  fash- 
ionable promenade  for  all  Calcutta.  In  the  evening, 
when  the  sky  is  red  over  the  bank  of  factory-smoke 
beyond  the  Hughli,  and  the  spars  and  tackle  of  the 
ships  and  barks  are  silhouetted  on  it  like  diagrams,  the 
unending  file  of  carriages  rolls  up  and  down  the  balus- 
traded  Red  Road,  or  lingers  over  the  river  to  watch 
the  cool  sunset.  Then  the  band  plays  in  the  Eden 
Gardens,  and  Calcutta  promenades  at  ease  till  it  is 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.  The  Maidan  is  very  English 
— Clapham  Common,  Hyde  Park,  and  Sandown  Park 
all  in  one — a  necessity  of  English  life.  And  the 
statues  with  which  it  is  starred  everywhere — Hardinge, 
Lawrence,  Mayo,  Outram,  Dufferin  Roberts — are  also 
part  of  the  life,  the  imperial  life  of  British  India. 

Part  of  the  life  also  is  on  the  river,  for  the  Hughli 
67 


Calcutta 

is  as  essential  a  limb  of  Calcutta  as  the  Thames  is  of 
London.  In  the  days  when  Simla  was  not,  Viceroy 
and  merchants  alike  retreated  out  of  the  city  stenches 
to  Barrackpur  and  other  spots  on  the  riverside.  For 
two  hours  you  steam,  first  past  the  black-funnelled 
liners  and  the  black-smoked  chimneys,  then  through 
fleets  of  country  boats  and  bathing  natives,  then  be- 
tween low  banks  punctuated  with  red  and  grey  temples, 
bordered  with  an  unbroken  fringe  of  trees,  out  of 
which  palms  lift  their  heads  daintily.  Reach  after 
reach,  till  the  thickets  part  and  you  see  long  stretches 
of  grass;  you  pull  up  at  a  stage  wherefrom  leads  a 
path  that  is  a  tunnel  of  green.  At  the  end  you  are  in 
an  English  garden  and  park  translated  into  India. 
Broad  drives  cleave  through  undulating  lawns.  The 
undulations  are  artificial,  for  drainage ;  but  at  this 
rainless  season  the  grass  is  grey.  Yet  the  bushes  and 
creepers  blossom  opulently  into  blue  and  purple  and 
scarlet.  This  is  a  botanical  garden  in  itself,  with 
banyan  and  dusty-seeded  teak  and  pipul  spreading  like 
a  pyramid.  There  are  scores  of  other  trees  with 
botanical  names,  bright  green  and  black,  brown  and 
red — trees  swayed  by  the  wind  into  bows,  trees  shoot- 
ing bolt  upright  or  drooping  to  earth,  symmetrical  or 
gadding  in  feathery  tumult.  Between  them  you  catch 
vistas  of  the  blue-bosomed  Hughli,  dotted  with  bam- 
boo boat-cottages,  embroidered  with  palms  and  pa- 
godas. This  is  Barrackpur;  but  besides  Barrackpur 
there  are  half-a-dozen  suburbs,  and  the  merchant  keeps 

68 


Calcutta 

his  steam-launch  as  in  Finchley  or  Merton  he  used  to 
keep  his  carriage. 

Yet  the  life  of  Calcutta,  the  thirty-five-years'  resi- 
dent will  tell  you,  is  not  what  it  was.  In  the  old  pic- 
tures you  see  Chowringhee,  the  great  street  along  the 
Maidan,  a  range  of  pillared  bungalows  ;  now  much  of 
it  is  red  brick,  stores,  hotels,  boarding-houses.  In 
the  pictures  the  sahib  drives  in  a  chariot,  often  with 
four  horses;  now  he  uses  a  victoria  or  a  dogcart. 
Comfort,  groan  the  elder  men,  is  dying  out  of  Cal- 
cutta. In  the  sixties,  when  it  took  four  months  to 
come  out,  men  found  it  worth  while  to  settle  down  in 
India  and  make  it  their  home.  Now  it  is  very  rare  to 
find  a  man  who  has  been  ten  years  on  end  in  the 
country ;  though  in  Calcutta  and  among  the  planters 
of  Behar  and  Assam  you  will  still  find  some  who 
have  not  seen  home  for  fifteen  and  twenty  years.  But 
now,  as  a  rule,  a  man  goes  home  after  five  years  and 
marries ;  after  ten  years  his  children  go  home ;  his 
wife  goes  to  see  them  every  other  year  or  so.  Life  is 
dislocated.  Nobody  is  quite  sure  whether  he  lives  in 
India  or  Europe,  and  is  at  home  in  neither.  Among 
the  merchants — the  legitimate,  if  not  the  lineal,  heirs 
of  the  "gentlemen  at  Fort  William,"  and  still  the 
backbone  of  Calcutta — there  will  be,  say,  three  part- 
ners, of  whom  one  is  always  spending  a  year  at  home. 
Or  else  the  senior  members  live  at  home  altogether 
and  send  junior  assistants  to  India,  to  the  detriment 
of  British  trade. 

69 


Calcutta 

And  yet,  though  croakers  croak,  trade  in  Calcutta 
is  still  a  great  and  imposing  business.  If  in  cotton 
its  ten  mills  cannot  compare  with  Bombay's  hundred 
and  more,  it  has  a  monopoly  of  jute-spinning,  and 
over  a  score  of  tall  chimneys  smirch  the  lucid  Indian 
air.  For  every  kind  of  retail  trade  it  is  the  finest 
centre  in  India :  it  has  the  largest  white  population 
among  the  cities,  and  it  is  the  emporium  for  the 
largest  white  country  populations — the  indigo  and  tea 
planters  of  Behar  and  Darjiling  and  Assam.  And  of 
late  years  Calcutta's  trade  has  received  a  powerful  im- 
pulse from  the  development  of  the  Bengal  coal-fields. 
The  mines  are  mostly  within  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  west  and  north-west  of  Calcutta;  the  produc- 
tion has  leaped  in  twenty  years  from  957,000  tons  to 
3,142,000;  the  exportation  in  ten  years  from  300 
tons  to  136,000.  As  steam  coal  it  may  not  be  so 
good  as  the  Cardiff  stuff:  nothing  is.  It  makes  much 
more  ash ;  but  then,  east  of  Suez,  it  is  very  much 
cheaper.  When  you  can  buy  it  in  Colombo  at  22s. 
a  ton,  and  have  to  pay  295.  for  Cardiff  coal,  the  ex- 
pense of  an  extra  hand  or  two  in  a  stoke-hold  is  a 
small  matter. 

If  you  want  to  be  convinced  that  Calcutta  is  first 
of  all  a  city  of  business,  you  need  only  look  at  its 
river  and  docks.  On  any  day,  at  any  hour,  the 
Hughli  carries  a  traffic  that  would  not  disgrace  the 
Pool  of  London.  Here  is  the  British  India  Com- 
pany, with  a  fleet  of  over  a  hundred  steamers,  along- 

70 


Calcutta 

side  of  the  boat  with  which  every  Bengal  peasant  goes 
to  market  as  the  London  tradesman  goes  with  his  cart. 
Up  and  down  they  ply — narrow  open  canoes  with  a 
tiny  deck-house,  Indian  gondolas ;  or  fat  barges,  as 
broad  as  they  are  long,  built  all  over  with  bamboo 
into  floating  cottages,  a  platform  above  the  roof  for 
the  captain,  and  a  post  and  rail  to  fence  the  cargo. 

The  bigger  ships  lie  three  and  four  deep  along  the 
shore,  liners  and  tramps,  and  especially  sailing-ships. 
You  wondered  why  you  never  see  the  big,  full-rigged 
ships  and  four-masted  barks  about  the  sea  or  in  ports 
of  call ;  the  reason  seems  to  be  that  they  are  all  in 
the  Hughli.  Here  is  the  "  Somali  "  of  Liverpool,  the 
biggest  British  sailing-ship,  and  here  is  the  broadest- 
beamed  boat  in  the  world,  who  twice  tore  her  own 
masts  out  by  the  weight  of  her  cargo.  By  the  side 
of  the  new  boats  with  their  high  freeboard,  the  long, 
low-waisted  ships  of  older  date  look  like  toys — but 
toys  of  what  beauty  !  Their  spars  and  tackle  are  like 
a  web  of  gossamer,  and  their  hulls,  black  and  white, 
grey  or  green,  sit  down  to  the  caressing  water  as  a 
swan  sits. 

You  can  travel  ten  or  twelve  miles  on  a  trolley 
round  the  wharfs  and  docks  of  Calcutta.  Here  are 
ships  coaling  or  loading  by  basket,  which  is  cheaper 
than  machinery ;  here  a  steamer  coming  into  dry 
dock  to  be  cleaned  ;  a  dumpy-masted  Dutch  boat,  her 
decks  mere  mounds  of  coal,  filling  up  for  Sumatra;  a 
tank-ship  waiting  for  a  job ;  a  British  India  boat  tied 

71 


Calcutta 

up  by  the  cat's  cradle  of  railway  siding,  discharging  a 
cargo  from  Mombasa.  And  among  them  all  crawl 
dredgers  and  barges  of  grey  mud,  and  the  docks  are 
checkered  with  brick-fields,  for  the  port  is  ever  in- 
creasing. 

Labour  is  not  extraordinarily  cheap — a  good  coal- 
coolie  makes  a  rupee  a-day,  or  eight  shillings  a-week ; 
which  is  only  a  couple  of  shillings  less  than  some 
English  country  labourers — but  it  is  abundant.  For 
Calcutta  is  stuffed  with  people  as  a  pod  with  peas. 

You  have  only  to  look  at  the  map.  In  most  maps 
of  cities  the  ground  represents  open  space  and  the 
blots  on  it  houses  ;  in  Calcutta  the  ground  is  all 
dwellings  with  little  squares  of  open  space  dotted 
over  it.  You  can  twist  and  turn  for  hours  in  pas- 
sages that  rub  each  elbow  as  you  walk  through  them. 
In  some  places  you  have  to  go  sidewise  and  edge 
along  thoroughfares  like  a  crab,  so  narrow  are  they. 
The  rest  is  dwelling-place,  pigsty,  cesspool,  or  what- 
ever you  like  to  call  it. 

The  workshops  are  smoke-black  sheds,  and  the 
workers  sit  with  just  room  between  them  to  half-use 
their  arms.  Other  shops  are  all  counter ;  the  keeper 
squats  on  his  heels  among  his  groceries,  and  sleeps 
among  them  at  night.  Many  huts  are  built  of  bam- 
boo-matting stretched  on  poles,  or  of  transparent  wat- 
tle-work ;  but  these  are  clean  and  wholesome  com- 
pared with  festering  lanes  in  which  people  sleep  and 
breed  and  sicken,  because  there  is  no  room  in  the  dens. 

72 


Calcutta 

These  people  are  of  a  new  type  to  the  stranger 
coming  in  from  the  North-West.  The  Bengali  is  of 
a  yellow-brown  complexion  ;  his  face  shows  quick  in- 
telligence, but  his  eye  is  shifty.  He  goes,  as  a  rule, 
bare-headed,  his  black  hair  carefully  parted  and  oiled 
down.  His  dress  is  a  white  calico  garment  looped 
into  loose  drawers ;  above  it,  in  the  cold  weather,  he 
wears  a  woollen  plaid,  generally  brown,  draped  round 
his  shoulders,  or  drawn  over  his  head  and  mouth. 
Also,  if  he  is  any  way  prosperous,  he  wears  ribbed 
woollen  stockings  or  socks  fastened  up  with  garters  or 
suspenders.  Black  is  the  usual  colour,  but  I  have 
seen  sky-blue  gartered  with  sea-green  ;  with  a  glimpse 
of  fat  brown  thigh  between  the  stocking  and  the 
drawers,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  the  most  indecent  dress  I 
know. 

But  by  his  legs  you  shall  know  the  Bengali.  The 
leg  of  a  free  man  is  straight  or  a  little  bandy,  so  that 
he  can  stand  on  it  solidly  :  his  calf  is  taper  and  his 
thigh  flat.  The  Bengali's  leg  is  either  skin  and  bone, 
the  same  size  all  the  way  down,  with  knocking  knobs 
for  knees,  or  else  it  is  very  fat  and  globular,  also  turn- 
ing in  at  the  knees,  with  round  thighs  like  a  woman's. 
The  Bengali's  leg  is  the  leg  of  a  slave. 

Except  by  grace  of  his  natural  masters,  a  slave  he 
always  has  been  and  always  must  be.  He  has  the 
virtues  of  the  slave  and  his  vices, — strong  family 
affections,  industry,  frugality,  a  trick  of  sticking  to 
what  he  wants  until  he  wears  you  down,  a  quick  imi- 

73 


Calcutta 

tative  intelligence  and  amazing  verbal  cleverness ; 
dishonesty,  suspiciousness,  lack  of  initiative,  coward- 
ice, ingratitude,  utter  incapacity  for  any  sort  of  chiv- 
alry. 

But  his  chief  and  marvellous  trait  is  his  abundance. 
Calcutta  and  Bengal  breed,  and  breed,  and  breed. 
Stand  on  the  Hughli  bridge  at  sunset — on  the  east 
side,  the  factory-smoke  lying  in  a  sullen  bank  under 
the  glowing  scarlet ;  on  the  west,  the  cornfield  of 
masts,  and  the  funnel-smoke  and  the  city-smoke  foul- 
ing the  ineffable  stillness  of  Indian  evening;  a  free 
space  of  blue  overhead,  so  clear  and  soft  and  pure 
that  it  seems  no  longer  the  canopy  of  the  world,  but 
the  embosoming  infinity  it  really  is  ;  and  the  Bengalis 
crossing  the  bridge.  On  one  side  going  in  to  Cal- 
cutta, on  the  other  coming  out,  an  endless  drove  of 
moving,  white-clothed  people,  never  varying  in  thick- 
ness, never  varying  in  pace,  never  stopping,  no  inter- 
val, just  moving,  moving,  like  an  endless  belt  running 
on  a  wheel.  Just  population  :  that  is  Bengal.  Food 
for  census,  food  for  census  ! 


74 


IX 
ON  NATIVE  SELF-GOVERNMENT 

IT  is  generally  supposed  in  Great  Britain  that  India 
is  governed  wholly  by  our  countrymen.  Of  the  few 
people  at  home  who  profess  to  know  anything  about 
India,  most  encourage  this  delusion.  The  native, 
they  will  tell  you,  has  no  word  in  any  affair  of  gov- 
ernment— unless  you  count  the  annual  shriek  set  up 
by  a  collection  of  half-Europeanised  lawyers  which, 
belonging  to  a  dozen  different  breeds  and  representing 
none,  calls  itself  the  National  Congress.  The  truth, 
as  you  might  expect  in  this  land  of  ironies,  is  widely 
different.  In  practice,  as  we  shall  see  presently,  the 
actual  work  of  government  is  almost  entirely  in  native 
hands,  and  largely  conducted  according  to  native 
methods ;  and  in  theory  the  government  of  almost 
every  considerable  town  in  India  is  in  the  hands  of  a 
municipal  council,  the  majority  of  whose  members 
are  inevitably  native.  There  are  about  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  municipalities  in  India,  which  is  more  than 
twice  as  many  as  there  are  in  England  and  Wales. 
There  is  also  a  district  board — a  kind  of  rural  County 
Council — in  each  administrative  district  in  India. 

It  was  a  generous  ideal,  the  qualification  of  India 
75 


On  Native  Self-Government 

by  Britain  for  self-government;  but  unluckily,  like 
other  ideals,  it  has  not  yet  achieved  itself.  The 
machinery  of  self-government  is  there,  but  the  capac- 
ity has  not  kept  up  with  it.  In  the  smaller  town 
councils  and  the  district  councils  self-government  is 
no  more  than  a  name.  The  civil  servant  is  chair- 
man :  he  announces  the  business  in  hand — the  repair- 
ing of  a  road,  the  imposition  of  an  octroi  on  goods 
brought  into  the  town — and  makes  a  suggestion. 
The  honourable  members  fold  their  hands  before  their 
faces  and  murmur,  "  As  my  lord  says,  so  let  it  be." 
The  native  members  feel  it  a  vague  compliment  to  be 
allowed  to  sit  with  the  sahibs,  but  yet  understand 
nothing  at  all  of  the  business.  The  official  sahibs  are 
obliged  by  the  law  to  keep  up  the  farce  of  constitu- 
tional discussion  and  voting,  though  they  well  know 
that  the  council  is  only  a  more  cumbrous  way  of  doing 
work  that  they  would  have  to  do  in  any  case. 

The  larger  municipalities  are  different.  There  may 
be  an  official  white  chairman,  but  the  councils  are 
large,  and  they  deal  with  large  revenues  and  important 
business.  By  them  you  may  fairly  test  the  aptitude 
of  the  more  intelligent,  though  less  manly,  races  of 
India  for  self-government.  It  so  happened,  at  the 
time  of  my  visit,  that  two  of  these  were  prominently 
in  the  public  eye — if  you  can  talk  of  a  public  eye  in 
India — as  the  objects  of  reformatory  measures. 
These  were  Calcutta  and  Agra.  Of  Agra  there  is  no 
need  to  say  much :  the  council,  to  put  it  brutally,  had 

76 


On  Native  Self-Government 

been  stealing  the  octroi  duties,  and  it  was  temporarily 
disestablished  by  the  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the 
North-West  Provinces.  On  the  Calcutta  question 
there  was  more  to  be  said — it  even  enjoyed  a  listless 
afternoon  in  the  House  of  Commons;  and  it  may 
fairly  be  taken  as  a  convenient  object-lesson  in  the 
aptitudes  and  tendencies  of  legislation  by  babu. 

The  history  of  municipal  self-government  in 
Calcutta  is  impartially  discreditable  to  everybody 
concerned  in  it.  Up  to  1876  it  had  passed  through 
some  half-dozen  incarnations,  which  need  not  trouble 
us ;  none  worked  well,  and  some  did  not  work  at  all. 
In  that  year  an  elective  municipality  was  created, 
and  its  constitution  was  modified  in  1888.  On  the 
universal  admission  of  all  authorities,  the  two  Acts 
creating  this  municipality  are  badly  drawn,  vague, 
and  inevitably  productive  of  bad  administration ;  but 
for  twenty  years  neither  the  Bengal  Government  nor 
the  elective  corporation  took  the  least  trouble  to  im- 
prove them.  Neglect  finally  issued,  as  might  have 
been  predicted,  in  violent  corrective  action  on  the 
part  of  the  Government,  and  in  factious  and  hysterical 
opposition  from  the  native  municipality. 

The  Corporation  of  Calcutta  consists  of  seventy- 
five  members,  called  Commissioners.  Fifty  are 
elected,  fifteen  nominated  by  Government,  and  ten 
by  the  various  commercial  bodies.  The  franchise  is 
confined  to  ratepayers,  who  total  just  two  per  cent, 
of  the  whole  population  of  Calcutta.  The  Chair- 

77 


On  Native  Self-Government 

man  is  a  member  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  nomi- 
nated by  Government.  He  is  supposed  to  be  the 
head  of  the  executive,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is 
liable  to  the  control  of  a  general  committee,  of  eight 
standing  committees,  and  of  the  general  meeting  of  all 
the  Commissioners,  who  can  upset  any  of  his  actions 
with  retrospective  effect :  consequently  the  executive 
power  is  in  the  hands  of  the  whole  body  of  seventy- 
five  Commissioners.  Of  these,  fifty-two  per  cent, 
are  Hindus,  nearly  eighteen  per  cent.  Mussulmans, 
and  the  remaining  thirty  per  cent,  of  other  sections. 
Less  than  twenty-seven  per  cent,  are  Europeans  or 
Eurasians.  Of  the  fifty  elected  Commissioners, 
twenty-three  are  lawyers.  The  municipality,  there- 
fore, deliberative  and  executive  together,  is  wholly  in 
the  hands  of  a  working  majority  of  Bengali  Hindus. 

It  was  duly  set  up,  however,  amid  the  plaudits  of 
the  friends  of  progress,  and  all  went  ill  till  November 
26,  1896.  On  that  day  the  municipality  was  in- 
augurating new  drainage  works,  and  asked  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  of  Bengal,  Sir  Alexander  Mackenzie, 
to  lay  the  foundation-stone.  He  complied  ;  but  when 
it  came  to  his  speech,  instead  of  the  oily  platitudes 
awaited  on  such  occasions,  the  horrified  Commission- 
ers found  themselves  listening  to  a  round  denuncia- 
tion of  themselves  and  all  their  works — or  want  of 
them.  They  were  an  impracticable  organisation  from 
the  first,  said  his  Honour;  they  talked  too  much; 
their  executive  was  too  weak ;  the  sanitary  condition 

78 


On  Native  Self-Government 

of  Calcutta  was  a  scandal ;  and  if  they  did  not  mend 
their  ways  there  would  come  radical  changes. 

They  gasped ;  but  they  did  not  mend  their  ways. 
On  March  19,  1898,  when  anew  Calcutta  Municipal 
Bill  was  introduced  into  the  Lieutenant-Governor's 
Council,  they  gasped  yet  more.  As  a  leading  organ 
of  babu  opinion  puts  it,  "  Nobody  could  ever  dream 
that  the  citizens  of  the  first  city  in  India  could  be 
sought  to  be  punished  in  this  cruel  manner  by  a  ruler 
whom  they  had  in  no  way  offended,  and  whom  they 
had  given  such  a  hearty  welcome."  You  will  note 
the  delicious  blend  of  Western  citizenship  with  the 
oriental  assumption  that  unpopular  action  on  a  ruler's 
part  might  naturally  be  due  to  a  defect  of  enthusi- 
asm in  his  reception.  But  in  truth  the  self-govern- 
ing babu  had  grounds  for  his  consternation. 

The  Bill,  after  the  kind  of  Indian  official  docu- 
ments, is  a  volume  of  the  size  of  a  small  ledger,  and 
contains — again  I  quote  the  babu  contemporary — 
"  seven  hundred  sections,  many  of  them  one  cubit 
long."  Briefly,  it  remodelled  the  whole  constitution 
of  the  Corporation.  The  Chairman  was  to  have  full 
power  over  the  executive  officers ;  and  the  conduct  of 
all  important  business  except  the  Budget — which  was 
left  to  the  whole  body  of  Commissioners — was  trans- 
ferred to  a  general  committee  of  twelve  members ;  of 
these  the  Government,  the  commercial  bodies,  and  the 
elected  Commissioners  were  each  to  choose  four. 

"  Could     a    greater    calamity    than    this    be    con- 

79 


On  Native  Self-Government 

ceived  ? "  cries  the  native  newspaper.  "  Now,  at 
last,  we  shall  have  a  city  it  will  be  possible  to  live  in," 
said  the  European  men  of  business.  The  controversy 
went  fiercely  on,  and  so  did  the  Bill.  Pamphlets, 
leaflets,  refutations,  counter-accusations,  speeches,  and 
rejoinders  hurtled  through  Calcutta. 

The  first  reflection  that  occurs  to  the  impartial 
mind,  on  the  Calcutta  Bill  in  particular  and  native 
self-government  in  general,  is  that  it  was  a  colossal 
and  unpardonable  blunder  to  introduce  an  elective 
municipality  at  all.  Representative  government,  a 
Western  invention,  has  failed  in  most  nations  of 
the  West :  was  it  likely  to  succeed  in  India  ?  India 
may  be  barbarous  or  civilised, — that  is  a  question  of 
words ;  but,  for  all  the  veneer  of  education,  it  is 
changelessly,  whole-heartedly  oriental.  When  you 
find  a  Master  of  Arts  gravely  dissertating  on  "  a  pure 
and  noble  character  gradually  degraded  by  an  un- 
healthy passion  for  a  beautiful  young  widow,"  what  is 
the  use  of  talking  to  him  about  sanitation  or  a  General 
Purposes  Committee  ?  He  catches  up  his  phrases 
readily  enough,  and  talks  rapidly  about  the  "  slight 
measure  of  self-government,"  and  of  "  strengthening 
the  executive  at  the  expense  of  the  rights  of  the 
people."  But,  of  course,  the  people  has  no  right  to 
self-government,  and  never  has  had ;  and  the  huge 
mass  of  it  does  not  want  any,  and  the  Indian  and 
Home  Governments  were  incredibly  weak  and  foolish 
to  give  any.  They  should  have  known,  what  the 

80 


On  Native  Self-Government 

babu  cannot  be  expected  to  understand,  that  the  right 
to  govern  yourself  should  be  exactly  proportioned  to 
your  ability  to  govern  yourself  well. 

Moreover,  "  the  rights  of  the  people  "  in  this  case 
means  next  to  nothing — merely  the  rights  of  the  one 
man  out  of  fifty  in  Calcutta  who  has  a  vote.  In 
seventy-three  cases  out  of  a  hundred  this  voter  is  a 
Hindu.  What  Government  really  did  then,  in 
making  two-thirds  of  the  Commissioners  elective, 
was  to  hand  over  the  city  to  the  Hindus.  Numeric- 
ally these  form  the  vast  majority  of  the  popu- 
lation of  Calcutta,  but  they  have  not  the  same 
vast  preponderance  of  interest.  It  is  the 
commercial  community — European,  Eurasian,  Jew, 
Parsi,  but  not  Bengali ;  for  the  Bengali  will 
never  trust  his  money  in  another  man's  hands — 
which  has  made  Calcutta  a  great  city,  and  maintains 
it  such.  The  trade  of  Calcutta  is  responsible  for 
three-fourths  of  its  land  value  and  two-thirds  of  its 
population.  If  it  were  not  the  centre  of  the  largest 
European  population  in  India,  it  would  cease  to  be  the 
winter  capital  to-morrow.  For  above  all — why  not 
speak  plainly  ? — the  principal  interest  in  Calcutta  is 
the  interest  of  British  rule.  The  present  municipal 
administration  sacrifices  the  interests  of  trade  and 
government,  with  others,  to  a  single  important,  but 
far  from  all-important,  section.  On  the  balance  of 
factors  in  the  city's  wellbeing,  the  Hindu  is  vastly 
over-represented. 

81 


On  Native  Self-Government 

But  let  us  get  out  of  the  bog  of  theory.  What  is 
the  Corporation's  record,  and  how  is  the  new  scheme 
likely  to  better  it  ?  These  are  the  only  relevant 
questions ;  and  the  answer  to  the  first  is  that  the  Cor- 
poration's record  is  exactly  what  you  would  have  ex- 
pected of  it.  It  is  absurd  to  expect  the  native  to  be 
born  administrator,  but  it  is  equally  absurd  to  blame 
him  for  not  being  one.  How  should  he  be  ?  In  the 
course  of  struggles  towards  the  native  point  of  view, 
I  interviewed  one  of  the  Commissioners — a  plump, 
round-faced,  gold-spectacled  gentleman  in  a  clerical 
coat,  waistcoat,  and  trousers  of  dove-colour.  He  led 
off  briskly  with  facts  and  figures,  until  he  found  I 
knew  something  of  the  Bill.  The  initial  form  of  the 
dialogue,  which  it  would  be  unprofitable  to  report  in 
full,  was  something  like  this  : — 

Babu.  "  And-now-the-pro-pos-al-is-that-we-should- 
meet-only-once-a-year-which-re-du-ces-us-to " 

/.  "  How  often  ?  " 

Babu.  "  Four  -  times  -  but  -I  -was  -  con-sid-er-ing-it- 
from-the-bud-get-point-of-view-and " 

7.  "  How  often  do  you  have  budgets  now,  then  ?  " 

Babu.  "  Well  -  on  -  ly-  once  -an-nu-al-ly-of-course- 
but  -  our  -  re-ve-nue-is-on-ly-from-land-and-house-tax- 
where-as-in-Bombay " 

/.  "  Only  land  and  house  tax  ?  " 

Babu.  "  Well-of-course-there-is-al-so-the-car-riage- 
tax  -  and  -  the  -  an  -  i  -  mal  -  tax  -  and  -  the  -li-cence-tax- 

but " 

82 


On  Native  Self-Government 

However,  my  friend's  chief  point,  when  he  came 
to  it,  was  one  in  which  many  good  white  authorities 
agree  with  him.  How  could  you  expect  us  to  do 
perfectly,  he  said,  when  we  entered  on  municipal  life 
utterly  without  training  or  experience,  when  Govern- 
ment let  us  severely  alone  and  did  nothing  to  help  and 
instruct  us  ?  How,  indeed  ?  Only  what  the  Com- 
missioner did  not  see  was  that  his  argument  could  be 
used  as  a  condemnation  of  the  elective  system  alto- 
gether ;  for  why  elect  Commissioners  if  Government 
still  has  to  do  their  work  for  them  ? 

But  the  Government,  whether  of  Britain,  of  India, 
or  of  Bengal,  cannot  use  that  argument ;  for  it  created 
representative  government  and  then  wholly  neglected 
to  use  its  power  to  direct  it  in  the  right  way.  In 
England  corporations  have  the  Local  Government 
Board  to  keep  them  straight,  and  need  it.  In  Cal- 
cutta Government  could  have  made  by-laws,  amended 
the  law  where  it  was  defective,  instituted  inquiries 
into  abuses,  suggested  reforms,  rewarded  good  Com- 
missioners with  titles  or  decorations,  and  especially 
set  up  proper  judicial  establishments  to  enforce  the 
sanitary  laws.  Instead,  it  left  the  Commissioners  to 
stew  in  their  own  juice — and  they  left  the  slums  of 
Calcutta  to  stew  in  theirs. 

If  you  care  to  go  a  little  into  the  details  of  the  case 
for  and  against  the  present  Corporation  of  Calcutta, 
there  is  no  need  to  enlarge  except  on  two  principal 
points.  The  question  whether  the  Commissioners 

83 


On  Native  Self-Government 

talk  too  much  came  much  into  the  discussion,  but 
after  all  it  is  a  minor  one.  They  say  they  do  not ; 
others  say  that  if  you  are  outside  the  door  during  one 
of  their  meetings  you  would  think  they  were  tearing 
the  Chairman  to  pieces.  Britons  and  Bengalis  have 
different  standards  of  the  necessity  for  talk.  "  You 
have  drunk  too  much  fire-water,"  said  the  missionary 
to  the  Indian  chief.  "  I  have  drunk  enough,"  he  re- 
plied. "You  have  drunk  too  much."  "Well,  too 
much  is  enough,"  said  the  chief:  and  it  is  so  with  the 
Bengali  and  talking. 

My  babu's  contention  seems  reasonable  enough. 
People  think  the  Commissioners  are  always  talking, 
said  he,  only  because  the  long  debates  are  reported, 
while  the  undiscussed  business  is  not ;  the  same  mis- 
apprehension exists  about  our  own  L.C.C.  The 
relevant  question  is,  Talk  or  not,  do  they  do  the 
work  ? 

On  the  whole,  with  every  effort  to  be  fair,  I  should 
say  that  they  do  not.  It  is  partly  their  own  fault,  but 
more  the  Act's,  and  most  of  all  native  self-govern- 
ment's at  large.  If  you  take  a  number  of  super- 
ficially educated  Bengalis  of  the  middle  class,  dignify 
them  with  the  title  of  Commissioners,  and  give  them 
the  control  of  a  vast  city,  it  is  certain  that  they  will 
grow  a  little  above  themselves.  They  will  want  to 
have  their  fingers  in  every  pie,  and  the  Calcutta  Act 
makes  this  particularly  easy.  In  Bombay  the  execu- 
tive, under  the  official  Chairman,  is  almost  independ- 

84 


On  Native  Self-Government 

ent  of  the  deliberative  body;  in  Calcutta  it  is  wholly 
subordinate. 

This  is  a  risky  arrangement,  even  in  London ;  in 
India  it  is  foredoomed  to  disaster.  The  Corporation 
has  grown  much  too  strong  for  its  Chairman.  Of  late 
the  Chairmen  have  been  frequently  changed,  often 
before  they  had  settled  into  their  work.  To  match 
your  wits  for  four  hours  on  end,  in  the  hot  weather, 
at  the  end  of  a  long  day's  work,  against  anything 
from  a  dozen  to  half  a  hundred  fluent  and  verbally 
ingenious  Bengalis,  is  trying  to  the  hardest  man : 
some  were  ripe  for  furlough  when  they  began  it — all 
became  over-ripe  after  a  season  of  it.  It  has  been 
comparatively  easy,  therefore,  for  the  Commissioners 
to  concentrate  all  power  in  their  own  hands.  To 
make  it  easier  yet  they  hit  on  an  ingenious  device, 
called  the  Complaints  Committee.  It  was  customary 
two  years  ago  to  have  enormous  standing  committees ; 
one  had  forty-eight  members  out  of  the  seventy-five, 
and  this  Complaints  Committee  had  thirty-three.  It 
was  formed  to  receive  complaints  against  the  executive 
officers  of  the  Corporation.  The  native  is  always 
burning  to  petition  somebody  about  something,  and 
complaints  came  in  a  turbid  spate.  They  arrived  at 
the  rate  of  twenty  a-day,  and  a  single  one  took  a  fort- 
night to  dispose  of.  By  the  end  of  a  year,  at  this 
rate,  there  would  be  7274  of  them  awaiting  attention. 
So  it  was  settled  that  the  Committee  should  only  con- 
sider complaints  referred  to  it  by  the  Chairman  or  a 

85 


On  Native  Self-Government 

Commissioner.  Who  now  so  important  as  the  Com- 
missioner ?  Who  so  prosperous  as  the  half-dozen  or 
so  dishonest  men  among  them  ?  The  native  they 
quarrelled  with  had  to  wait  eighteen  months  for  per- 
mission to  put  up  a  latrine ;  the  relative  or  the  friend 
or  the  man  with  a  little  money  to  lay  out  in  the  right 
quarter  was  able  to  evade  the  building  acts  and  increase 
his  rent-rolls. 

With  a  system  like  this  it  would  be  folly  to  look 
for  good  executive  administration.  The  constitution, 
it  has  been  said,  is  all  brake-power  and  no  engine. 
There  is  no  motive  power.  The  Chairman  can  be 
overruled  and  his  action  annulled.  The  committees 
are  jealously  watching,  checking,  economising.  As 
for  the  subordinate  officials — the  engineer,  surveyor, 
health  officer,  down  to  the  very  inspector  of  nuisances 
— they  hold  their  offices  at  the  pleasure  of  the  Com- 
missioners at  large,  and  owe  their  appointments  to 
them.  A  Hindu  lives  with  all  his  relations  under 
one  roof,  and  nepotism  with  him  is  almost  a  religious 
duty ;  hence  unblushing  solicitation,  touting,  and  oc- 
casionally bribery.  A  bad  officer  can  get  his  post  if 
-he  is  agreeable  to  the  Commissioners;  a  good  one 
can  lose  it  if  he  offends  them  or  any  of  their  relations. 

Considering  all  this,  it  is  wonderful  that  the  munic- 
ipality has  done  even  as  much  as  it  has.  It  is  not 
denied  that  the  Commissioners  have  made  some  halt- 
ing progress.  Their  credit  is  good,  and  they  have 
reduced  their  rate  of  interest  in  seven  years  from  five 

86 


On  Native  Self-Government 

to  three  and  one-half  per  cent. ;  loans  have  been  ten- 
dered for  five  and  six  times  over.  They  have  cut 
Harrison  Road  from  the  Hughli  Bridge  eastward 
through  some  of  the  worst  slums  of  Calcutta — a 
broad  avenue  nearly  five  miles  long,  garnished  with 
trees,  established  with  tall,  well-built,  and  airy  houses, 
— here  the  long  wooden  verandahs  of  tenement- 
houses  rising  over  lines  of  shops,  there  brick  or  stone 
places  of  business.  It  is  a  street  to  which  any  city 
might  point  proudly.  But  it  is  an  isolated  case,  and 
my  babu  Commissioner's  own  figures  condemn  him. 
He  produced  tables  which  showed — deducting  subur- 
ban expenditure,  which  only  came  into  the  municipal- 
ity's functions  in  1889 — that  his  council  had  spent 
proportionately  less  in  the  improvement  and  sanitation 
of  Calcutta  than  did  the  Justices  of  the  Peace  who 
administered  it  before  their  time.  He  excused  this 
by  explaining  that  the  resources  of  the  Corporation 
were  very  limited  ;  but  the  damning  fact  remains  that 
it  has  not  raised  as  much  revenue  as  it  is  entitled  to 
do.  Its  Act  allows  a  rate  of  twenty-three  per  cent., 
which  is  very  low  compared  with  our  rates  at  home ; 
for  the  last  seven  years  it  has  only  raised  nineteen  and 
one-half  per  cent. — and  that  although  the  value  of 
land  in  Calcutta  is  very  high  and  the  profits  of  owners 
prodigious.  In  some  parts  of  the  city  land  is  worth 
£40,000  an  acre,  and  the  most  valuable  plots  are  pre- 
cisely those  which  are  covered  with  flimsy  hovels 
crawling  with  naked  humanity. 


On  Native  Self-Government 

For,  after  all,  in  sanitary  matters,  you  must  judge 
authority  not  by  what  it  has  done,  but  by  what  it  has 
left  undone ;  and  on  this  showing  the  verdict  must  be 
black  against  native  self-government.  Calcutta  is  a 
shame  even  to  the  East.  In  its  slums  dock-coolies 
and  mill-hands  do  not  live :  they  pig.  Houses  choke 
with  unwholesome  breath;  drains  and  compounds 
fester  in  filth.  Wheels  compress  decaying  refuse  into 
roads.  Cows  drink  from  wells  soaked  with  sewage, 
and  the  flour  of  bakeries  is  washed  in  the  same  pollu- 
tion. 

What  wonder  that  the  death-rate  of  the  whole  city 
is  thirty-six  in  the  thousand — in  one  ward,  forty-eight 
in  the  thousand  ?  The  deaths  that  might  be  prevented 
by  decent  cleanliness  are  reckoned  at  more  than  one 
in  every  three.  It  is  a  miracle  that  plague  struck 
Calcutta  as  lightly  as  it  did ;  for  its  state  is  an  invita- 
tion to  pestilence  and  a  menace  to  the  world.  So  far 
it  has  escaped  by  sheer  luck ;  next  year  or  the  next 
we  may  hear  of  thousands  on  thousands  of  victims. 
You  cannot  be  astonished  at  anything  when  the  Com- 
missioners— who  had  known  of  all  these  things  for 
twenty  years — though  they  formed  committees  and 
established  hospitals  with  exemplary  zeal,  formed  vigi- 
lance committees  to  notify  cases  of  disease  which  did 
nothing  at  all. 

Why  ?  Because  the  B.  A.  is  still  an  Oriental : 
either  in  his  heart  he  hates  sanitary  regulations  as 
fervently  as  the  sweeper,  or  he  is  afraid  of  the  sweep- 

88 


On  Native  Self-Government 

er's  anger  if  he  enforces  them.  He  wants  to  combine 
Western  representative  government  with  Eastern  dirt, 
Herbert  Spencer  with  the  laws  of  Manu — to  eat  his 
cake  and  have  it.  "  My  nephew,"  lamented  a  native 
lady,  "  will  be  the  ruin  of  us  all.  I  am  a  widow  with 
young  children,  yet  he  must  needs  join  a  vigilance 
committee.  He  will  be  knocked  on  the  head  and  we 
shall  all  come  to  ruin ;  why  must  he  interfere  with 
other  people's  business  ?  " 

The  truth  is  that  we  have  made  a  capital  error  with 
the  Bengali — capital  in  any  case,  fatal  with  him.  We 
have  instructed,  but  not  educated,  him.  We  have 
taught  him  from  books  instead  of  facts,  taught  him 
the  words  of  civilisation  and  not  the  things.  We 
have  therefore  failed  with  him,  as  we  deserved. 


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THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION 

It  is  hard  to  determine  who  is  the  more  unfortunate  man  here — 
a  man  who  has  a  marriageable  daughter,  but  cannot  provide  for 
her  marriage,  or  a  man  who  has  a  son  who  has  failed  to  pass  an 
examination.  Take  the  case  of  the  latter  first.  He  starves  him- 
self to  provide  for  the  education  of  his  son.  The  son,  let  us  sup- 
pose, does  his  best  to  pass  an  examination — most  boys  do  so  in  this 
country.  But  it  happens  that  he  falls  ill  on  the  first  day  of  his  ex- 
amination. He  must  thus  wait  another  year.  The  subjects  of  his 
study  disgust  him,  for  he  had  once  gone  through  them.  He  ap- 
pears at  another  examination,  but  unluckily  a  sudden  dizziness 
seizes  him  one  day  while  writing  his  answers ;  he  fails  to  recollect 
something  with  which  he  was  quite  familiar,  and  again  fails  in  the 
examination.  When  the  news  is  brought  to  him  that  he  has  failed, 
he  falls  down  in  a  swoon — or  something  worse  happens  to  him. 
The  blow  makes  him  something  like  an  idiot  for  life.  If  his  un- 
thinking parent  chastises  him  after  this,  he  purchases  four  pice 
worth  of  opium  and  kills  himself.  What  is  a  failed  candidate  ? 
He  is  a  doomed  man !  He  is  as  doomed  as  a  life-convict.  Night- 
keeping  and  hard  study  had  destroyed  his  health.  Luckily  he 
does  not  live  long.  A  failed  candidate,  generally  speaking,  does 
not  survive  his  disgrace.  He  dies  either  of  consumption  or  of  in- 
digestion. He  knows  he  is  not  wanted  in  society.  If  he  has  evil 
propensities,  he  becomes  a  dangerous  member  of  society.  But, 
luckily,  youths  belonging  to  those  classes  who  compete  for  univer- 
sity honours  seldom  carry  with  them  any  criminal  proclivities. 

No ;  you  are  not  dreaming.     This  is  an  exact  tran- 
90 


The  Higher  Education 

script  of  a  leading  article  which  lately  appeared  in  one 
of  the  most  influential  of  the  native  newspapers  in 
Calcutta.  I  give  you  my  word  it  did. 

Having  read  it,  you  can  begin  to  form  some  idea  of 
that  wonder  of  nature,  the  babu ;  or,  at  least,  you  can 
begin  to  perceive  how  impossible  it  is  to  form  any 
sane  idea  of  a  wonder  so  unnatural.  This  extract  is 
the  babu  displayed,  complete  and  essential.  I  suppose 
there  is  nothing  like  it  in  the  world — thousands  of 
people,  speaking  and  writing  an  alien  tongue  almost  as 
if  it  were  their  own,  yet  thinking  and  feeling  a  whole 
world  apart  from  the  spirit  of  it.  This  grotesque 
prodigy  is  the  fine  flower  of  the  system  of  education 
which  we,  with  infinite  care,  have  grafted  on  to  the 
Indian  intelligence. 

When  we  began  to  organise  the  higher  education  of 
India,  it  was  decided,  mainly  on  the  impulse  of 
Macaulay,  that  it  should  be  founded  on  an  English 
basis.  The  ancient  languages  and  the  ancient  phi- 
losophies of  India  were  depressed  into  a  secondary 
place :  in  the  five  universities  we  have  set  up  in  Bom- 
bay, Calcutta,  Madras,  Allahabad,  and  Lahore,  San- 
skrit or  Pali  stands  on  much  the  same  footing  as  Latin 
or  Greek,  with  which  India  has  plainly  but  the  remot- 
est concern.  Examinations,  whether  in  high  schools 
or  in  universities,  are  conducted  in  English  :  English 
literature,  English  mental  and  moral  philosophy,  Eng- 
lish systems  of  mathematics,  English  methods  of 
science,  are  the  highroads  to  a  degree.  The  educated 

91 


The  Higher  Education 

native  is  to  be  intellectually  indistinguishable  from  the 
educated  Briton. 

On  the  surface  this  experiment  has  been  astonish- 
ingly successful.  In  Bengal,  and  to  a  great  extent  in 
Madras  and  Bombay,  the  native  took  to  European 
education  as  a  duck  to  water.  It  is  true  that  he  never 
learned  to  talk  or  write  exactly  like  an  Englishman — 
his  speech  and  style  have  always  an  exotic  flavour ; 
yet  the  numbers  who  learned  to  speak,  read,  and  write 
fluently,  and  who  passed  fairly  difficult  examinations 
in  a  foreign  tongue,  testify  to  an  application  and  an 
elastic  intelligence  which  you  will  hardly  parallel  else- 
where in  the  world.  Thousands  matriculate  in  the 
universities  yearly ;  more  than  a  thousand  take  de- 
grees. The  experiment  seems  triumphant ;  and  none, 
naturally,  triumph  louder  than  the  natives  themselves. 
"  We  fully  admit,"  writes  the  organ  I  have  quoted 
above,  "  that  the  Englishman  is  very  intelligent  and 
shrewd  ;  but  we  also  contend  that  the  Indian " — 
meaning  the  Bengali — "  is  fully  his  peer."  Or,  an- 
other day,  "  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  Indian 
populace  are  more  intelligent  than  a  London  popu- 
lace." Ten  minutes  in  a  native  village  are  enough  to 
establish  the  imbecility  of  this  last  proposition ;  yet 
on  paper  it  would  seem  to  be  true. 

Unfortunately  the  whole  system  of  higher  educa- 
tion in  India  is  radically  vicious  in  plan,  and,  if  not 
actually  disastrous,  at  least  almost  profitless  in  effect. 
It  is  organised  solely  with  a  view  to  results  on  paper. 

92 


The  Higher  Education 

The  universities  have  been  modelled  on  that  of 
London,  which  is  probably  the  worst  in  the  world. 
They  do  not  teach,  but  only  examine.  Not  merely 
that;  they  only  examine  on  set  subjects  and  on  set 
books.  The  candidate  must  not  be  expected  to  know 
anything  outside  his  cram-books.  Such  an  examina- 
tion can  never  be  any  real  test  of  capacity  or  even  of 
knowledge,  but  only  of  memory — a  useful  gift,  but  no 
more:  of  real  education  it  furnishes  no  criterion 
whatever.  The  consequence  is  that,  in  Calcutta  at 
least,  a  man  of  fair  but  not  extraordinary  intelligence, 
but  of  powerful  memory,  can  attain  to  his  B.A.  degree 
by  simple,  ignoble  learning  by  rote.  An  analysis  of 
the  examination  papers  shows  that  a  native,  if  he  will 
take  the  trouble  to  learn  by  heart  the  introductions 
and  notes  to  his  books  of  English  literature,  the  texts 
of  his  books  on  psychology  and  ethics,  the  introduc- 
tions to  his  Latin  books  and  Bohn's  translation  of  the 
same,  can  write  himself  B.A.  without  the  feeblest 
approach  to  anything  that  could  be  called  a  thought 
of  his  own. 

That,  you  say,  must  be  a  very  bad  examination; 
but  you  can  hardly  believe  that  anybody  would  have 
the  memory  or  the  application  to  perform  such  a  feat. 
You  are  wrong:  it  is  actually  done,  or  as  near  as 
makes  no  difference.  A  few  years  ago,  at  Calcutta, 
a  candidate  for  the  degree  of  M.A.  took  up  Latin. 
His  translations  were  literally  flawless.  Only  the 
examiner  noticed  that  in  every  case  he  began  his 

93 


The  Higher  Education 

rendering  a  few  lines  before  the  passage  which  was 
printed  on  the  paper  given  him  and  finished  a  few 
lines  later.  He  had  learned  the  crib  by  heart,  fixing 
his  places  by  proper  names,  or,  when  these  were 
scarce,  by  some  mnemonic  arrangement  of  his  own 
— and  there  he  was!  After  all,  the  same  thing  has 
been  done  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Many  of  us 
used  to  know  whole  books  of  Virgil  and  Horace  by 
heart  in  Latin ;  why  should  not  a  Bengali,  speaking 
English  and  with  a  direct  pecuniary  interest  in  the 
business,  be  able  to  learn  them  in  English  ? 

The  examiner  in  this  case  reported  that  his  man 
had  failed,  whereon  the  candidate  appealed  to  the 
governing  body.  This  was  mainly  composed  of  na- 
tives, who,  having  the  interests  of  education — that  is, 
of  getting  degrees — at  heart,  insisted  on  the  man  being 
allowed  to  pass  in  Latin,  though,  on  his  own  admis- 
sion, he  hardly  knew  a  word  of  the  language.  For  the 
bad  system  is  made  worse  by  the  fact  that  the  uni- 
versities have  been  allowed  to  come  under  native 
management,  which  means  laxity  and  utter  careless- 
ness about  true  education.  There  used  to  be  a  viva 
voce  examination  at  Bombay,  and,  as  I  learn  from  a 
gentleman  who  had  much  experience  of  it,  its  dis- 
closures were  sufficiently  amusing.  "  You  say  in 
your  papers  here,"  he  would  say  to  the  examinee, 
"  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  a  most  beautiful  writer. 
Now  here  are  his  works :  pick  out  your  favourite." 
Whereon  the  examinee  would  turn  green,  for  this  was 

94 


The  Higher  Education 

the  first  time  he  had  ever  set  eyes  on  so  much  as  the 
covers  of  the  works  of  that  beautiful  writer  Scott. 
But  the  natives  abolish  this  part  of  the  examination ; 
and  in  general  they  are  always  tending  to  lower  the 
standard. 

It  is  true  that  the  standard,  especially  of  Bombay, 
is  still  fairly  high — about  that  of  London,  and  con- 
siderably above  that  of  the  pass-man  at  Oxford  or 
Cambridge.  But  as  it  is  all  a  matter  of  rote,  it  mat- 
ters little  what  the  theoretical  standard  may  be.  The 
candidate  has  a  direct  pecuniary  interest  in  passing, 
and  no  labour  will  stop  him.  In  the  first  place,  there 
is  Government  service.  The  various  Secretariats  ab- 
sorb a  vast  number  of  graduates  as  clerks,  and  though 
the  general  influence  of  the  clerk  on  Government  is 
here,  as  everywhere,  most  pernicious,  they  make  very 
good  clerks  indeed.  But  then,  there  are  not  nearly 
enough  clerkships  to  go  round.  The  calendar  of  the 
University  of  Calcutta  shows  over  five  thousand  of 
B.A.'s  alone — a  couple  of  batches  of  three  to  four 
hundred  apiece,  by  the  way,  named  Bandyopadhyay 
and  Mukhopadhyay  respectively.  Those  who  get 
into  the  public  service  are  established  for  life ;  but 
the  others  feel  that  they  have  been  ill-used.  They 
have  not  yet  got  clear  of  the  idea — so  skin-deep  is 
their  Europeanising — that  to  have  a  degree  is  in  itself 
a  passport  to  public  employment.  How  should  they, 
when  even  to  have  failed  in  an  examination  is  re- 
garded as  giving  a  claim  to  a  salary  ?  It  sounds  like 

95 


The  Higher  Education 

comic  opera  j  but  I  know  many  men  who  have  had 
natives  again  and  again  appeal  for  posts  with  the  sole 
qualification  that  they  have  failed  in  a  university 
examination.  Consumption  and  indigestion  spare 
them  somehow,  and  now  failure  is  almost  a  degree  in 
itself.  "  F.  M.,  Calcutta  " — Failed  in  Matriculation 
— may  shortly  be  expected  to  appear  on  the  babu's 
card. 

The  surplus  Bandyopadhyays,  for  whom  Govern- 
ment finds  no  room,  go  to  reinforce  the  native  press. 
They  are  discontented  ;  they  have  their  grievance, — 
though,  mark  you,  they  have  been  educated  at  the 
public  expense — at  the  expense,  that  is,  of  the  ryot, — 
and  consequently  the  native  press  is  steadily  dis- 
affected. Most  of  it  professes  loyalty,  but  it  never 
misses  a  chance  of  carping  at  the  Government,  or  at 
white  men  in  general.  So  far,  then,  as  the  native 
press  is  a  danger,  it  is  one  which,  by  the  usual  irony 
of  India,  we  have  created  for  ourselves  in  a  sincere 
attempt  to  benefit  the  native.  I  fancy,  for  myself, 
that  the  Anglo-Indian  official  is  apt  to  be  a  little 
nervous  about  the  native  press,  and  by  taking  notice 
of  it  to  feed  the  vanity  on  which  it  lives.  It  is  im- 
pertinent, certainly,  often  wilfully  inaccurate,  and 
sometimes,  in  the  vernacular,  filthily  scurrilous ;  but 
the  best  way  to  deal  with  it  is  probably  to  do  nothing. 
Let  disloyalty  talk  and  write  as  it  will ;  after  all,  why 
should  a  native  of  India  be  loyal  to  Britain  ?  But  the 
moment  it  begins  to  act,  shoot  and  spare  not. 

96 


The  Higher  Education 

Much  better  to  enjoy  quietly  the  unfailing  deli- 
ciousness  of  the  native  press.  There  is,  for  instance,  a 
monthly  review  called  "  The  National  Magazine," 
which  never  fails  to  please.  Its  tone  is  consistently 
moral,  sensible,  and  dignified,  but  occasionally  its 
English  flowers  a  little  luxuriantly.  "  It  was  some 
time  before  I  could  extricate  him,"  writes  an  expert 
bicycle-rider  of  a  pupil,  "  when,  lo !  a  very  much 
bruised  and  sprained-ankle  man  was  he."  Or  here 
is  a  description  of  a  young  man's  first  step  in  vice. 
11  He  heard  the  soft,  delicious,  soul-abandoning  sounds 
of  music,  and  saw  the  youthful  nautch-girls,  robed  in 
voluptuous  dress,  come  and  seat  before  him,  while 
the  distribution  of  garlands  of  jasmine  and  sprinkling 
of  rose-water  lent  what  is  generally  termed  a  double 
arrow  to  the  Cupid's  bow."  A  local  correspondent 
of  a  daily  paper  is  happily  inspired  when  he  says  that 
some  of  the  officials  "  are  in  the  jungle  with  gun  in 
the  jolly  time  of  Xmas  joy."  But  perhaps  obituaries 
offer  most  facility  for  elegance  of  composition.  One 
organ  says  of  a  pleader — and  remember  that  nearly  all 
the  prominent  babus  follow  this  trade — "  his  child- 
like simplicity  fascinated  all,  and  was  proof  against 
the  demoralising  influences  of  his  honourable  pro- 
fession." Another  gentleman  "  was  a  man  of  un- 
common sense,  devoted  to  God  all  along  his  life." 
By  the  death  of  a  patron  he  "  was  compelled  to  live 
in  his  nativity  at  Somsa.  .  .  .  The  deceased  was 
the  gem  hidden  at  Somsa,  quite  unknown  to  many, 

97 


The  Higher  Education 

but  known  to  almost  all  the  Pundits  of  Bengal.  His 
death  has  made  this  part  of  the  country  dark  as  it 
were."  Finally,  lest  you  think  there  may  be  exagger- 
ation in  stories  of  babu  English,  take  this  extract 
from  an  appreciation  of  certain  orators  of  the  native 
Congress.  The  subject  is  a  gentleman  called  Pundit 
Madan  Mohan  Malavayya. 

His  speech  is  as  mellifluous  as  his  name.  He  has  a  sweet  voice, 
and  is  one  of  the  most  enthusiastically  welcomed  of  men  on  the 
Congress  platform.  Neither  tall  nor  short,  not  stout  but  thin,  not 
dark,  dressed  in  pure  white,  with  a  white  robe  which  goes  round 
his  shoulders  and  ends  down  below  the  knees,  Mr.  Madan  Mohan 
stands  like  Eiffel's  Tower  when  he  addresses  his  fellow-Congress- 
men. He  stands  slanting  forward,  admirably  preserving  his  centre 
of  gravity.  His  speeches  are  full  of  pellucid  and  sparkling  state- 
ments, and  his  rolling  and  interminable  sentences  travel  out  of  his 
mouth  in  quick  succession,  producing  a  thrilling  impression  on 
the  audience.  There  is  music  in  his  voice ;  there  is  magic 
in  his  eye ;  and  he  is  one  of  the  sweet  charmers  of  the  Congress 
company. 

And  now,  do  you  know  one  more  reason  why  the 
native  seeks  university  distinctions  ?  The  gentleman 
who  learned  the  Bohn  by  heart  was  asked  why  he  put 
himself  to  so  much  trouble.  To  raise  his  price  in  the 
marriage  market,  he  serenely  replied.  He  would  get 
a  wife  with  a  larger  dowry  as  M.A.  than  as  B.A. ;  how 
much  larger  than  as  F.M.  or  nothing  ?  If  you  do  not 
believe  me,  listen  to  a  writer  in  my  "  National  Maga- 
zine," who  himself  deprecates  the  practice.  "  Let 
alone  the  boy,"  he  says ;  "his  father  of  maturer  years 

98 


The  Higher  Education 

will  not  be  ashamed  to  demand  from  you  cash  to  the 
tune  of  not  less  than  2000  rupees,  if  you  will  only 
ask  him  to  marry  your  daughter  to  his  son.  And 
why  so  ?  Only  because  the  boy  has  obtained  a 
certificate  of  matriculation  from  the  university."  It 
is  sober  truth :  the  fathers  of  daughters  will  pay 
heavily — and  do — to  purchase  sons-in-law  who  have 
passed  examinations. 

Did  I  say  comic  opera  ?  It  is  beyond  farce ;  it  is 
beyond  the  games  of  the  nursery.  We  have  given 
India  the  treasures  of  our  Shakespeare,  our  Bacon, 
our  Huxley;  and  India  uses  them  as  convenient 
pegs  wherefrom  to  hang  quotations  on  the  husband 
market ! 

O  India,  India  !  What  jests  are  perpetrated  in  thy 
name! 


99 


XI 

THE   MAHARAJAH   BAHADUR 

THE  first  time  I  met  my  friend  the  Maharajah,  he 
was  wearing  his  blue  and  green.  An  ultramarine 
satin  tunic  over  grass-green  silk  trousers  is  a  combi- 
nation which  arrests  the  European  eye  at  any  time. 
In  this  case  it  enclosed  a  little  wizen-faced  man,  with 
eyes  now  tending  together,  then  flitting  here  and 
there  with  an  abundance  of  white  eyeball.  Add  a 
little  jewelled  satin  cap,  a  drooping  black  moustache, 
and  pointed  yellow-leather  shoes  :  with  joyful  recog- 
nition— Heaven  forgive  me — I  cried,  "  An  illustration 
of  Aladdin ! " 

I  repented  of  my  irreverence  later,  for  he  is  one  of 
the  greatest  men  in  Bengal,  which  is  little,  and  de- 
serves to  be,  which  is  much.  He  is  the  largest  land- 
owner in  the  province,  and  his  tax-free  rent-roll 
comes  to  about  a  quarter  of  a  million  a-year.  Else- 
where in  India,  you  must  understand,  the  State  is 
usually  the  landlord,  according  to  the  immemorial 
custom  of  the  land.  But  in  Bengal,  a  hundred  and 
six  years  ago,  the  Government  made  what  is  called 
the  Permanent  Settlement — giving  over  the  land  to 
zemindars,  who,  under  the  Mogul  rule,  had  been 
100 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

hereditary  land-agents  and  tax-collectors.  Finding 
the  zemindars  collecting  rent  from  the  cultivators,  it 
is  possible  that  the  Indian  Government  mistook  them 
for  landlords  in  the  European  sense  ;  at  any  rate,  they 
were  declared  proprietors  of  the  land,  subject  to  a 
fixed  yearly  tax,  which  was  never  to  vary.  It  never 
has  varied ;  in  the  meantime,  the  population  of  culti- 
vators has  increased  vastly,  and  their  industry  has 
reclaimed  vast  tracts  of  waste  land.  All  this  incre- 
ment has  been  swallowed  by  the  zemindars,  who  have 
repaid  the  ryot  in  many  cases  by  raising  his  rent  and 
confiscating  his  land.  The  average  zemindar  does  no 
public  service  in  return  for  the  vastly  enhanced  in- 
come which  he  owes  to  the  security  of  our  rule :  he 
does  not  even  pay  income-tax,  since  in  India  income- 
tax  and  land-tax  are  never  paid  together :  thus  the 
Bengal  zemindar  escapes  on  both  counts.  On  the 
other  side  the  Government  loses  revenue  which  it 
would  otherwise  reasonably  exact,  and  the  ryot  loses 
everything  he  has.  It  is  encouraging,  in  the  face  of 
accusations  of  perfidy,  that  our  Government  in  India 
prefers  to  struggle  against  deficits  when  it  could  easily 
put  its  Budget  straight  by  breaking  the  promise  of 
a  century  back — an  expedient  that  any  other  Govern- 
ment there  ever  was  or  could  be  in  India  would  have 
flown  to  long  ago. 

The  Maharajah  is  a  zemindar  among  zemindars — 
the    richest    of   them  all — yet  no  true  zemindar   at 
heart.     The  ryots  of  his  estate — until  a  few  months 
101 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

back  his  brother's — instead  of  having  the  records  of 
their  rights  suppressed  and  destroyed  and  their  fields 
then  let  to  a  higher  bidder,  have  found  their  land- 
lord always  munificent  in  every  public  enterprise. 
The  new  Maharajah,  to  complete  the  inventory  of 
him,  has  spent  a  couple  of  years  in  the  Civil  Service 
for  the  benefit  of  his  mind,  and  a  couple  as  a  half- 
naked  fakir  for  that  of  his  soul,  is  a  member  of  the 
Viceroy's  Legislative  Council,  and  a  constant  reader 
of  the  London  newspapers.  I  mentioned  this  to  a 
friend  as  almost  incredible.  u  If  he  told  you  so," 
was  the  reply,  "  he  does.  He  always  tells  the  truth, 
and  so  did  his  brother.  It's  unusual  in  this  country." 

To-day  he  was  to  be  formally  invested  with  the 
title  of  Maharajah  Bahadur — which  means  "  Lord- 
Great-King  " — by  the  Lieutenant-Governor  of  Ben- 
gal. His  village  is  comparatively  near  Calcutta,  so 
that  I  only  had  to  start  the  night  before.  I  changed 
carriages,  half-asleep,  and  the  next  thing  I  knew — 
the  Ganges. 

The  holy  Ganges  floated  great  and  grey  at  my  feet. 
Out  of  the  blackness  of  the  west  it  came  naked  into 
the  muffled  grey  of  dawn.  Except  the  bare  train  that 
had  brought  me  to  the  ghat  and  the  bare  steamer  that 
was  to  carry  me  across,  I  could  see  nothing  but  chill 
yellow  shore  and  sandbank  and  chill  white  water.  A 
pilgrim  issuing  from  some  little  shrine,  where  he  had 
slept,  shivered  and  shook  knee-deep  in  the  stream, 
and  his  soaked  white  drawers  clung  to  him  dankly. 
102 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

When  you  travel  in  small  countries  you  generally  find 
that  you  start  and  arrive  at  convenient  hours — catch 
your  train  after  a  comfortable  breakfast,  and  get  to 
your  destination  in  easy  time  for  dinner.  In  a  country 
of  the  size  of  India  you  must  take  your  arrivals  and 
changes  as  you  find  them.  So  that  I  found  the  palm- 
fringed,  basking  Ganges  of  my  dreams  to  be  a  broad, 
noiseless,  colourless  flood,  which  the  red  ball  of  the 
sun  hardly  awoke  to  more  than  the  clammy  lustre  of 
a  dead  fish's  eye.  The  seams  of  sandbank  were  pale 
with  cold  ;  the  shores  were  only  sandbank  prolonged 
to  a  greater  capacity  for  numb  desolation. 

But  the  sun  climbed  undiscouraged,  rent  the  mists, 
and  began  to  warm  India  into  life  again.  The  cease- 
less caw  of  crows  began  to  half-soothe,  half-madden 
for  another  day ;  the  keen  smell  of  dung-fires  rose 
into  the  lighter  air.  By  the  time  the  melancholy 
Ganges  had  sunk  into  its  desert  behind  us  the  land 
was  possible  for  life,  and  we  were  puffing  briskly 
through  the  brilliant  tobacco,  dark  indigo,  and  pale 
opium-poppies  of  Behar.  We  puffed  and  puffed, 
halting  or  changing  now  and  again,  till  the  astounding 
sight  of  five  white  men  in  a  carriage  together  hinted 
that  something  unusual  was  afoot.  A  station  or  two 
later,  sure  enough,  appeared  arches  shouting  "Wel- 
come !  "  and  "  Long  live  the  Empress  !  "  There  was 
a  concourse  of  servants  in  maroon  and  gold  liveries, 
and  a  great  array  of  dust-clothed  natives.  From  the 
station  the  road  was  marked  by  green  and  red  flags 
103 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

every  ten  yards  or  so,  with  half-uniformed  native 
policemen  standing  at  attention  to  guard  them.  We 
were  plainly  there. 

As  we  drove  from  the  station,  the  crowd  became 
every  moment  thicker.  By  the  time  we  swung  in 
under  the  last  of  the  arches  there  was  a  wall  of  them 
— a  purple  or  yellow  turban  here  and  there,  but  for  the 
most  part  an  unaffected  peasant  crowd  in  the  labour- 
stained  white  calico  of  their  working  days.  Their 
demeanour  was  respectful  but  confident,  they  came 
very  near  the  apogee  of  looking  glad.  And  it  was 
evident  in  a  minute  that  we  were  on  a  model  estate. 
The  garden  we  were  rolling  through  was  without 
reproach  for  order  and  neatness — perhaps  the  only 
native's  garden  in  India  that  is.  Presently  we  came 
to  the  stables :  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  asked  if  this 
were  really  untidy  India.  Solid  buildings,  speck- 
less  cleanness,  sound  drainage,  air  everywhere — it  was 
no  wonder  that  coats  were  like  satin,  eyes  bright,  and 
action  free.  Here  was  a  scion  of  the  house  of 
Danegelt,  English  coachers,  Arabs,  Walers,  country- 
breds,  and  scientific  crosses — well  over  a  hundred  in 
all.  Not  that  either  the  late  or  the  present  Ma- 
harajah is  a  great  sportsman  ;  they  are  simply  needed  to 
do  the  work  of  the  enormous  estate  and  household. 

While  we  looked,  the  team  was  put  into  the  coach 

and  off"  we  went,  four-in-hand,  to  see  the  grounds.    It 

was  not  easy  to  tell  their  size,  for  the  drives  wound 

in  and  out,  twisting  till  you  could  hardly  tell  whether 

104 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

you  had  gone  a  couple  of  miles  or  had  circled  back 
to  your  starting-point.  In  this  season  they  were 
parched ;  leaves  were  pale,  and  grass  almost  white. 
But  even  so  they  were  cooled  to  the  eye  with  blue 
lakes  and  the  shade  of  swishing  trees.  They  were 
tufted  with  every  variety  of  palm,  pillars  of  grey  stem 
with  capitals  of  green  sheath,  or  the  dwarf  crowns  of 
fronds  that  till  lately  it  cost  a  man's  life  to  smuggle 
out  of  Japan.  Below  them  sloped  tiers  of  bushes, 
green,  red,  and  yellow ;  below  these  nestled  flowers. 
It  was  the  East  for  profusion,  the  West  for  trimness. 
So  we  came  to  a  denser  crowd  before  a  walled  court, 
and  entered ;  and  then  looked  and  blinked.  There 
was  a  guard  of  honour  of  police  and  half-a-dozen 
finely  mounted  sowars  in  the  Maharajah's  maroon  and 
gold.  There  was  a  Eurasian  band  in  short  jackets, 
white-braided  trousers,  and  little  round  braided  caps 
stuck  on  one  side — the  band  from  a  South  Coast  pier 
slightly  soiled.  But  that  was  nothing.  Besides  them, 
standing  vacuously  or  lolling  on  the  grass,  were 
wondrous  creatures  in  the  most  flaring  raiment  eyes 
ever  ached  to  contemplate.  Their  tunics  were  of  such 
a  green  as  cold  words  can  never  hint  at — the  colour 
of  green  baize  fired  with  a  tinge  of  the  hottest  yellow. 
Below  they  wore  orange  trousers,  and  vermilion 
decorated  and  inflamed  the  whole.  They  bore  great 
fans  on  long  silver  poles — fans  of  yellow  and  crimson 
satin,  with  suns  and  stars  embroidered  on  them  with 
gold  thread  and  pearls. 

I05 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

Suddenly  the  Maharajah  bounded  on  to  the  scene, 
again  in  his  ultramarine  and  grass-colour,  dashed  into 
the  durbar  tent,  rushed  at  his  guests,  his  English 
tumbling  over  itself  in  all  the  excitement  of  a  child  on 
his  birthday.  Then  he  sprang  into  his  state  carriage, 
amid  a  boom  of  blessing  from  selected  priests,  and  was 
away  to  meet  his  Honour.  I  went  inside  the  durbar 
tent,  and  gasped  again.  On  a  dais  stood  the  Lieuten- 
ant-Governor's chair — green  velvet  back,  rose  velvet 
seat,  silver  frame,  gold  borders,  promiscuous  pearls. 
Before  the  dais,  on  the  right,  was  a  similar  chair  for 
the  Maharajah.  Behind  was  another  group  of  baize- 
and-fire  green,  orange  and  vermilion ;  more  fans ;  also 
an  old  gentleman  in  silver-flowered  crimson  silk  with 
a  bossy  silver  trumpet-shaped  mace  as  long  as  him- 
self: he  smiled  with  concentration  at  nothing,  and  ap- 
peared to  have  been  drinking  his  new  lordship's 
health.  And  to  round  off  the  silver  and  gold  and 
pearls,  there  depended  from  the  roof  about  forty 
chandeliers  and  lamps,  cheap  green,  cheap  blue,  cheap 
purple,  their  wire  skeletons  askew,  short  of  a  drop 
here  and  a  drop  there,  insulting  the  daylight,  rem- 
iniscent partly  of  seaside  lodgings,  partly  of  the  morn- 
ing after  an  Oxford  wine-party.  O  India  ! 

The  pavilion  was  already  full.  There  were  the 
European  managers  of  the  estate — something  like  a 
dozen  of  them — and  the  babus  of  the  estate  also. 
Portly  gentlemen  in  spectacles  and  weak  beards,  in 
black  or  fawn  garments,  half  coats,  half  shirts,  but 
106 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

with  clear  skins,  twinkling  eyes,  and  smiles  neither 
fawning  nor  patronising — these  Behari  babus  were  by 
far  the  cleanest  men  of  this  class  I  had  seen.  And 
there,  especially,  were  all  the  Maharajah's  rich  rela- 
tions to  support  him — and  his  poor  relations  also,  to 
be  supported.  They  are  all  Brahmans  of  the  most 
exclusive  sanctity  :  all  wore  white  turbans  of  a  pecul- 
iar shape,  with  a  low  peak  over  the  forehead,  and  all 
had  elaborate  designs  in  white  and  red  paint  on  their 
foreheads.  All  dripped  with  attar  of  roses.  One 
tiny,  liquid-eyed,  small-boned  nephew  wore  Prussian- 
blue  velvet  and  lemon  yellow ;  his  brother  at  his  side, 
droop-headed  like  a  flower,  and  dissolving  in  smiles 
like  a  woman,  was  content  with  black  and  a  faded 
Kashmir  shawl — again  that  seaside  landlady  ! — worn 
something  like  a  bath-towel.  Others  wore  flowered 
silk — lilac  shirt  and  carmine  trousers,  both  rippling 
with  silver.  Behind  you  could  see  the  headpieces — 
half  crowns,  half  pastrycooks'  caps — of  solemn-faced 
babies.  And  most  gorgeous  of  all  was  a  very  impor- 
tant relation  from  off  the  railway  line,  a  big  man, 
speaking  nothing  but  a  kind  of  jungly  Hindustani, 
with  a  caste-mark  as  elaborate  as  a  cobweb  on  a  fore- 
head the  colour  of  a  pickled  walnut,  attired  in  a  gown 
all  of  white  satin  and  gold  and  pearls,  twitching  his 
leg  incessantly  on  the  pivot  of  a  yellow-leather  toe, 
massive,  grim,  and  gorgeous — Mr.  Rutland  Barrington 
as  Pooh-Bah. 

The  scrunch  of  wheels  outside,  the  splutter  of  the 
107 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

everlasting  salute,  "  God  Save  the  Queen,"  from  the 
Eurasian  band,  with  one  flute  playing  like  a  dentist's 
file !  Then  the  Maharajah  for  a  moment :  but  he 
must  not  be  seen  at  the  beginning.  Then  another 
carriage,  and  a  rosy,  rather  chubby,  British  gentleman 
in  a  plain  frock-coat  with  the  Star  of  India.  The 
Lieutenant-Governor  bowed  his  way  through  bows 
and  salaams  to  the  dais.  Then  two  of  his  staff 
walked  to  the  farther  door  and  led  back  the  Maharajah. 
The  little  Maharajah — but  how  resplendent !  His 
rose-silk  turban  sparkled  with  bullion  and  diamonds, 
and  three  jewelled  aigrettes  stood  up  from  it.  Over 
the  blue  and  green  he  had  a  mantle  of  black  velvet, 
richly  broidered  with  white :  the  white  was  all  pearls. 
Round  his  neck  was  a  heavy  necklace,  with  sapphires 
and  topazes  and  diamonds  and  emeralds  as  large  as 
your  finger-tip. 

He  crept  rather  than  walked  forward  to  the  dais. 
The  fresh-coloured,  bright-eyed  Lieutenant-Governor 
stood  up  ;  the  Viceroy's  patent  was  read,  and  then  his 
Honour  addressed  his  Highness  in  a  speech.  The 
Maharajah,  so  radiant  and  so  tiny,  crouched  before 
him ;  he  crushed  his  handkerchief  in  his  damp  hand, 
and  the  caste-mark  was  sweating  off  his  forehead. 
He  looked  again  like  a  little  boy,  not  quite  sure 
whether  his  schoolmaster  would  call  him  good  or 
naughty. 

It  was  all  over  in  ten  minutes  :  a  shining  attendant 
brought  forward  attar  of  roses  and  beetle-nut  in  gold 
108 


The  Maharajah  Bahadur 

vessels,  the  Governor  dispensed  a  little  of  each,  and 
the  Maharajah  was  now  Maharajah  indeed.  Then,  as 
all  filed  out,  he  slipped  off  his  velvet  mantle,  for  the 
pearls  shower  from  it  so  peltingly  that  he  has  to  be 
followed  by  a  man  with  a  bag.  After  that,  it  was 
just  like  a  coming-of-age — lunch,  which  the  orthodox 
Brahman  host  did  not  attend,  speeches,  sports  in  a 
meadow  so  thronged  that  you  could  have  walked  on 
brown  heads.  But  you  seldom  see  a  coming-of-age 
at  home  with  forty-five  elephants  in  line,  swaying 
their  great  foreheads  under  pink  and  scarlet  silk,  and 
flashing  back  the  sun  from  howdahs  of  silver  and 
carved  ivory. 

Yet  the  sight  of  all  that  stuck  was  the  little 
scented,  jewel-crusted  atomy  perspiring  before  the 
gentleman  in  the  plain  frock-coat.  If  the  Maharajah 
came  to  England  he  would  have  all  our  greatest  men 
and  fairest  women  in  a  ring  round  him  ;  St.  James's 
and  the  Mansion  House  would  compete  for  his  smiles, 
and  Windsor  would  delight  to  honour  him.  When 
the  Lieutenant-Governor  comes  home,  the  odds  are 
he  will  take  a  little  place  in  the  country,  and  be  very 
poor  and  not  over-healthy  ;  and  his  neighbours,  who 
will  find  him  rather  dull,  will  say  that  they  have 
heard  he  was  something  in  India.  The  man  that  was 
as  God  to  seventy-five  million  people !  And  the 
other  that  cowered  at  his  feet !  Good  Lord  !  what 
do  we  know  ? 


109 


XII 
DARJILING 

IN  Calcutta  they  grumbled  that  the  hot  weather 
was  beginning  already.  Mornings  were  steamy,  days 
sticky,  and  the  municipal  impurities  rose  rankly. 
The  carter  squatted  over  his  bullocks  with  his  shining 
body  stark  naked  but  for  a  loin-cloth. 

At  Siliguri,  the  bottom  of  the  ascent  to  Darjiling, 
the  rough  grass  and  the  tea-gardens  were  sheeted  at 
sunrise  in  a  silver  frost.  What  few  natives  appeared 
happed  their  heads  in  shawls  as  if  they  had  toothache. 

It  takes  you  an  afternoon  and  a  night  to  get  as  far 
as  Siliguri.  What  you  principally  notice  on  the  way 
is  the  dulness  of  the  flat,  moist  richness  of  Bengal, 
and  the  extraordinary  fulness  of  the  first-class  car- 
riages. Even  at  this  winter  season  the  residents  of 
Calcutta  snatch  at  the  chance  of  being  cold  for 
twenty-four  hours.  When  you  get  out  of  your  car- 
riage at  the  junction  station,  you  see  on  the  other  side 
of  the  platform  a  dumpy  little  toy  train — a  train  at 
the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope  with  its  wheels  cut  from 
beneath  it.  Engines  and  trucks  and  carriages  seem  to 
be  crawling  like  snakes  on  their  bellies.  Six  miniature 
easy-chairs,  three  facing  three,  on  an  open  truck  with 
an  awning,  make  a  first-class  carriage. 

no 


Darjiling 

This  is  the  Darjiling-Himalaya  Railway — two-foot 
gauge,  climbing  four  feet  to  the  hundred  for  fifty 
miles  up  the  foothills  of  the  greatest  mountains  in  the 
world.  It  is  extraordinary  as  the  only  line  in  India 
that  has  been  built  with  Indian  capital.  But  you  will 
find  that  the  least  of  its  wonders.  A  flat-faced  hill- 
man  bangs  with  a  hammer  twice  three  times  on  a 
spare  bit  of  railway  metal  hung  up  by  way  of  a  gong, 
the  whistle  screams,  and  you  pant  away  on  surely  the 
most  entrancing  railway  journey  in  the  world.  Nothing 
very  much  to  make  your  heart  jump  in  the  first  seven 
miles.  You  bowl  along  the  surface  of  a  slightly  as- 
cending cart-road,  and  your  view  is  mostly  bamboo 
and  tea.  Graceful  enough,  and  cool  to  the  eye — the 
bamboos,  hedges  or  clumps  of  slender  stem  with 
plumes  of  pale  leaf  swinging  and  nodding  above  them  ; 
the  tea,  trim  ranks  and  files  of  short,  well-furnished 
bushes  with  lustrous,  dark-green  leaves,  not  unlike 
evergreens  or  myrtle  in  a  nursery  at  home, — but  you 
soon  feel  that  you  have  known  bamboo  and  tea  all 
your  life.  Then  suddenly  you  begin  to  climb,  and 
all  at  once  you  are  in  a  new  world — a  world  of 
plants. 

A  new  world  is  easy  to  say,  but  this  is  new  indeed 
and  a  very  world — such  a  primeval  vegetable  world  as 
you  have  read  of  in  books  and  eked  out  with  dreams. 
It  has  everything  you  know  in  your  world,  only 
everything  expressed  in  vegetation.  It  is  a  world  in 
its  variety  alone.  Trees  of  every  kind  rise  up  round 
in 


Darjiling 

you  at  every  angle — unfamiliar,  most  of  them,  and 
exaggerations  of  forms  you  know,  as  if  they  were  seen 
through  a  microscope.  You  might  come  on  such 
broad  fleshy  leaves  by  way  of  Jack's  giant  beanstalk. 
Other  growths  take  the  form  of  bushes  as  high  as  our 
trees  ;  but  beside  them  are  skinny,  stunted  starvelings, 
such  as  the  most  niggardly  country  might  show.  Then 
there  are  grasses — tufted,  ruddy  bamboo  grass,  and 
huge  yellow  straws  with  giant  bents  leaning  insolently 
over  to  flick  your  face  as  you  go  by.  Smaller  still 
grow  the  ferns,  lurking  shyly  in  the  crevices  of  the 
banks.  And  over  everything,  most  luxuriant  of  every- 
thing, crawl  hundred-armed  creepers,  knitting  and 
knotting  the  whole  jungle  into  one  mellay  of  strug- 
gling life. 

The  varieties — the  trees  and  shrubs  and  grasses  and 
ferns  and  creepers — you  would  see  in  any  tropical 
garden;  but  you  could  not  see  them  at  home.  You 
could  not  see  them  in  their  unpruned  native  inter- 
course one  with  the  other.  The  rise  and  fall  of  the 
ground,  the  whims  of  light  and  air,  coax  them  into 
shapes  that  answer  to  the  most  fantastic  imagination. 
Now  you  are  going  through  the  solemn  aisles  of  a 
great  cathedral — grey  trunks  for  columns,  with  arches 
and  vaulted  roofs  of  green,  with  dark,  retreating 
chapels  and  altar-trappings  of  mingled  flowers.  Now 
it  is  a  king's  banqueting-hall,  tapestried  with  white- 
flowering  creeper  and  crimson  and  purple  bougain- 
villea ;  overhead  the  scarlet-mahogany  blossoms  of  a 

112 


Darjiling 

sparse-leaved  tulip-tree  might  be  butterflies  frescoed 
on  a  ceiling. 

Fancy  can  compel  the  wilderness  into  moments  of 
order,  but  wild  it  remains.  The  growths  are  not  gen- 
erally buildings,  but  animate  beings  in  a  real  world. 
You  see  no  perfectly  shaped  tree,  as  in  a  park  or 
garden  ;  one  is  warped,  another  stunted,  another  bare 
below — each  formed,  like  men,  by  the  pressure  of  a 
thousand  fellows.  Here  is  a  corpse  spreading  white, 
stark  arms  abroad.  Here  are  half-a-dozen  young 
creatures  rolling  over  each  other  like  puppies  at  play. 
And  there  is  a  creeper  flinging  tumultuous,  enrap- 
tured arms  round  a  stately  tree ;  presently  it  is  grip- 
ping it  in  thick  bands  like  Laocoon's  serpent,  then 
choking  it  mercilessly  to  death,  then  dead  itself,  its 
bleached,  bare  streamers  dangling  limply  in  the  wind. 
It  is  life,  indeed,  this  forest — plants  fighting,  victorious 
and  vanquished  ;  loving  and  getting  children  ;  spring- 
ing and  waxing  and  decaying  and  dying — our  own 
world  of  men  translated  into  plants. 

While  I  am  spinning  similitudes,  the  Darjiling- 
Himalaya  Railway  is  panting  always  upwards,  boring 
through  the  thick  world  of  trees  like  a  mole.  Now 
it  sways  round  a  curve  so  short  that  you  can  almost 
look  back  into  the  next  carriage,  and  you  understand 
why  the  wheels  are  so  low.  Now  it  stops  dead,  and 
almost  before  it  stops  starts  backwards  up  a  zigzag, 
then  forwards  up  another,  and  on  again.  In  a  mo- 
ment it  is  skating  on  the  brink  of  a  slide  of  shale  that 

"3 


Darjiling 

trembles  to  come  down  and  overwhelm  it ;  next  it  is 
rumbling  across  a  bridge  above  the  point  it  passed  ten 
minutes  ago,  and  below  that  which  it  will  reach  ten 
minutes  hence.  Twisting,  backing,  circling,  dodging, 
but  always  rising,  it  unthreads  the  skein  whose  end  is 
in  the  clouds  and  the  snows. 

Presently  the  little  engine  draws  quite  clear  of  the 
jungle.  You  skirt  opener  slopes,  and  the  blue  plain 
below  is  no  longer  a  fleeting  vista,  but  a  broad  pros- 
pect. You  see  how  the  forest  spills  itself  on  to  the 
fields  and  spreads  into  a  dark  puddle  over  their  light- 
ness. You  see  a  great  river  overlaying  the  dimness 
with  a  ribbon  of  steel.  The  ferns  grow  thicker  about 
you ;  gigantic  fronds  bow  at  you  from  gullies  over- 
head, and  you  see  the  tree-fern — a  great  crown  of 
drooping  green  on  a  trunk  of  a  man's  height — stand- 
ing superbly  alone,  knowing  its  supreme  gracefulness. 
Next,  as  you  rise  and  rise,  the  air  gets  sharp ;  through 
a  gauzy  veil  of  mist  appear  again  huge  forests,  but 
dark  and  gloomy  with  brown  moss  dripping  dankly 
from  every  branch.  Rising,  rising,  and  you  have  now 
come  to  Ghoom,  the  highest  point.  Amid  the  cold 
fog  appears  the  witch  of  Ghoom — a  hundred  years 
old,  with  a  pointed  chin  and  mop  of  grizzled  hair  all 
witch-fashion,  but  beaming  genially  and  requesting 
backsheesh. 

Then  round  a  corner — and  here  is  Darjiling.  A 
scattered  settlement  on  a  lofty  ridge,  facing  a  great 
cup  enclosed  by  other  ridges — mountains  elsewhere, 
114 


Darjiling 

here  hills.  Long  spurs  run  down  into  the  hollow, 
half  black  with  forest,  half  pale  and  veined  with 
many  paths.  At  the  bottom  is  a  little  chequer  of 
fresh  green  millet ;  the  rim  at  the  top  seems  to  line 
the  sky. 

And  the  Himalayas  and  the  eternal  snows  ?  The 
devil  a  Himalaya  in  sight.  Thick  vapours  dip  down 
and  over  the  very  rim  of  the  cup;  beyond  Darjiling 
is  a  tumult  of  peaked  creamy  cloud.  You  need  not 
be  told  it, — clouds  that  hide  mountains  always  ape 
their  shapes, — the  majestic  Himalayas  are  behind 
that  screen,  and  you  will  not  see  them  to-day,  nor 
perhaps  to-morrow,  nor  yet  for  a  fortnight  of  to- 
morrows. 

You  must  console  yourself  with  Darjiling  and  the 
hillmen.  And  Darjiling  is  pleasant  to  the  eye  as 
you  look  down  on  it,  a  huddle  of  grey  corrugated- 
iron  roofs,  one  stepping  over  the  other,  hugging  the 
hillside  with  one  or  two  red  ones  to  break  the  mono- 
tone. There  is  no  continuous  line  of  them:  each 
stands  by  itself  in  a  ring  of  deep  green  first.  The 
place  is  cool  and  grateful  after  an  Indian  town — 
clean  and  roomy,  a  place  of  homes  and  not  of  pens. 

In  the  middle  of  it  is  the  bazaar,  and  my  day, 
by  luck,  was  market-day.  Here,  again,  you  could 
never  fancy  yourself  in  India.  A  few  Hindus  there 
are,  but  beside  the  dumpy  hillmen  their  thin  limbs, 
tiny  features,  and  melting  eyes  seem  hardly  human. 
More  like  the  men  you  know  is  the  Tibetan,  with 
"5 


Darjiling 

a  long  profile  and  long,  sharp  nose,  though  his  hat 
has  the  turned-up  brim  of  the  Chinee,  though  he 
wears  a  long  bottle-green  dressing-gown  open  to  the 
girdle,  and  his  pigtail  knocks  at  the  back  of  his  knees. 
But  the  prevailing  type,  though  as  Mongolian,  is  far 
more  genial  than  the  Tibetan.  Squat  little  men, 
for  the  most  part,  fill  the  bazaar,  with  broad  faces 
that  give  room  for  the  features,  with  button  noses,  and 
slits  for  eyes.  They  wear  boots  and  putties,  or 
gaiters  made  of  many-coloured  carpet-bagging ;  and 
their  women  are  like  them — with  shawls  over  their 
heads,  and  broad  sashes  swathing  them  from  bosom 
to  below  the  waist,  with  babies  slung  behind  their 
backs,  not  astride  on  the  hip  as  are  the  spawn  of 
India.  Their  eyes  are  black  as  sloes — puckered,  too, 
but  seeming  puckered  with  laughter ;  and  their  clear 
yellow  skins  are  actually  rosy  on  the  cheeks,  like  a 
ripe  apricot.  Square-faced,  long-pigtailed,  plump, 
cheery,  open  of  gaze,  and  easy  of  carriage,  rolling 
cigarettes,  and  offering  them  to  soothe  babies — they 
might  not  be  beautiful  in  Europe;  here  they  are 
ravishing. 

But  you  come  to  Darjiling  to  see  the  snows.  So  on 
a  night  of  agonising  cold — feet  and  hands  a  block  of 
ice  the  moment  you  cease  to  move  them — must  fol- 
low a  rise  before  it  is  light.  Maybe  the  clouds  will 
be  kinder  this  morning.  No ;  the  same  stingy,  clammy 
mist, — only  there,  breaking  through  it,  high  up  in  the 
sky — yes,  there  are  a  few  faint  streaks  of  white.  Just 
116 


Darjiling 

a  few  marks  of  snow  scored  on  the  softer  white  of  the 
cloud,  chill  with  the  utterly  disconsolate  cold  of  ice 
through  a  window  of  fog.  Still,  there  are  certainly 
Himalayas  there. 

Up  and  up  I  toiled ;  the  sun  was  plainly  rising  be- 
hind the  ridge  of  Darjiling.  In  the  cup  below  the 
sunlight  was  drawing  down  the  hillsides  and  peeling 
off  the  twilight.  Then,  at  a  sudden  turn  of  the  wind- 
ing ascent,  I  saw  the  summit  of  Kinchinjunga.  Just 
the  summit,  poised  in  the  blue,  shining  and  rejoicing 
in  the  sunrise.  And  as  I  climbed  and  climbed,  other 
peaks  rose  into  sight  below  and  beside  him,  all 
dazzling  white,  mounting  and  mounting  the  higher  I 
mounted,  every  instant  more  huge  and  towering  and 
stately,  boring  into  the  sky. 

Up — till  I  came  to  the  summit,  and  the  sun  ap- 
peared— a  golden  ball  swimming  in  a  sea  of  silver. 
He  was  sending  the  clouds  away  curling  before  him ; 
they  drifted  across  the  mountains,  but  he  pursued  and 
smote  and  dissolved  them.  And  ever  the  mountains 
rose  and  rose,  huger  and  huger;  as  they  swelled  up 
they  heaved  the  clouds  away  in  rolls  off  their 
shoulders.  Now  their  waists  were  free,  and  all  but 
their  feet.  Only  a  chasm  of  fog  still  hid  their  lower 
slopes.  Fifty  miles  away,  they  looked  as  if  I  could 
toss  a  stone  across  to  them ;  only  you  could  never 
hope  to  hit  their  heads,  they  towered  so  gigantically. 
Now  the  clouds,  clearing  to  right  and  left,  laid  bare 
a  battlemented  range  of  snow-white  wall  barring  the 
117 


Darjiling 

whole  horizon.  Behind  these  appeared  other  peaks  : 
it  was  not  a  range,  but  a  country  of  mountains,  not 
now  a  wall,  but  a  four-square  castle  carved  by  giants 
out  of  eternal  ice.  It  was  the  end  of  the  world — a 
sheer  rampart,  which  forbade  the  fancy  of  anything 
beyond. 

And  in  the  centre,  by  peak  and  col  and  precipice, 
the  prodigy  reared  itself  up  to  Kinchinjunga.  Bare 
rock  below,  then  blinding  snow  seamed  with  ridges 
and  chimneys,  and  then,  above,  the  mighty  summit — 
a  tremendous  three-cornered  slab  of  grey  granite  be- 
tween two  resplendent  faces  of  snow.  Other  moun- 
tains tiptoe  at  the  sky  snatch  at  it  with  a  peak  like  a 
needle.  Kinchinjunga  heaves  himself  up  into  it, 
broadly,  massively,  and  makes  his  summit  a  diadem. 
He  towers  without  effort,  knowing  his  majesty.  Sub- 
lime and  inviolable,  he  lifts  his  grey  nakedness  and 
his  mail  of  burnished  snow,  and  turns  his  forehead 
serenely  to  sun  and  storm.  Only  their  touch,  of  all 
things  created,  has  perturbed  his  solitude  since  the 
birth  of  time. 


118 


XIII 
THE  VILLAGERS 

THE  tents  of  my  host,  the  landlord  of  fifty  villages, 
were  pitched  under  a  black-green  mango-grove.  The 
headman  of  the  next  village  but  one  had  come  into 
camp  to  conduct  the  Presence  to  see  his  property — a 
tall,  thin-legged  old  man  with  white  hair  and  mous- 
tache, wearing  only  a  dust-white  shirt  and  drawers 
and  a  little  linen  band  round  the  middle  of  his  right 
calf.  When  he  came  up  he  salaamed  and  salaamed, 
and  then  held  out  a  rupee  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
The  landlord  touched  it  and  salaamed, — the  one 
signifying  thereby  that  all  that  was  his  was  his  lord's, 
the  other  that  of  his  bounty  he  remitted  the  same. 

We  plodded  off  in  the  happy  sunshine,  over  a 
switchback  track  of  caked  mud  and  powdered  dust, 
through  cornfields  pancake-flat  for  as  far  as  a  man 
could  see.  With  the  barley  they  had  sown  rape, 
now  in  tall,  yellow  bloom  or  just  making  seed.  Here 
and  there  a  grove  of  trees ;  now  and  again  a  brown- 
legged,  bowing  cultivator;  all  the  rest  was  a  canopy 
of  pale-blue  sunlight  spread  over  a  carpet  of  full- 
blooded  green  shot  with  gold. 
119 


The    Villagers 

When  we  came  to  the  tumble  of  mud-wall  and 
grass  thatch,  peasants  streamed  out  from  every  hole  ! 
All  bore  rupees,  and  hurried,  salaaming,  to  have  them 
touched  and  remitted  :  such  is  the  use  of  India.  But 
as  rupees  have  ever  been  scarcer  than  men,  you  saw 
one  furtively  pass  the  wherewithal  for  the  necessary 
salutation  behind  his  back  to  another.  They  led  us 
with  ceremony  to  the  village  meeting-place — a  fair- 
sized  open  portico  of  sun-dried  mud  brick,  with  a 
yard  before  it  under  trees.  There  two  old  wicker 
chairs  were  set  for  the  sahibs,  and  the  village  stared 
in  a  semicircle  before  us.  A  few  white-bearded  elders 
— the  ryot  does  not  often  live  to  fifty — many  young 
men,  more  children,  they  stood  or  squatted  on  their 
heels  after  the  native  mode ;  not  on  the  ground,  under- 
stand, but  literally  on  the  tendons  of  their  heels.  As 
it  was  midday,  most  of  them  were  naked  but  for  a 
loin-cloth.  There  was  little  enough  of  the  rainbow 
brightness  of  city  costume ;  a  shawl  or  two  had  once 
been  red,  but  most  had  never  been  more  than  white, 
and  were  now  but  a  shade  whiter  than  their  owners' 
fields.  As  the  landlord  discoursed  of  crops  and  rain 
and  canals,  fathers  held  their  babies  on  their  hips — 
the  women,  of  course,  were  hidden  indoors — and  it 
was  a  little  pathetic  to  contrast  the  pot-bellies  of  the 
children  with  the  skin-and-bone  of  the  men.  It  is 
scarce  exaggerating  to  say  that  every  rich  native  in 
India  is  fat :  watch  him  shovelling  rice  into  himself 
by  the  handful,  and  you  will  agree  that  it  would  be  a 
1 20 


The    Villagers 

miracle  if  he  were  not.  Wherefrom  you  infer  that 
the  hundreds  of  millions  of  skeletons  are  lean  be- 
cause they  must — because  they  live  from  harvest  to 
seed-time  and  through  to  harvest  again  with  bellies 
half  empty. 

But  they  are  a  patient  people,  the  villagers  of 
India  j  they  have  been  hungry  these  thirty  centuries 
or  so,  and  it  has  never  occurred  to  them  that  they 
have  any  claim  to  be  filled.  They  grumbled  a  little, 
to  be  sure  :  what  tiller  of  the  soil  ever  did  else  ?  They 
could  not  get  enough  water  from  the  Government 
canal,  and  the  Christmas  rains  had  not  fallen ;  and 
they  were  poor  men.  When,  in  due  course,  we  went 
out  to  inspect  everything — from  the  fields  to  the 
cakes  of  cow-dung  fuel  that  were  being  stacked  and 
covered  up  against  the  rainy  season — the  landlord 
observed  a  broken  well,  and  offered  to  pay  one-half 
of  its  repairing  if  the  village  would  pay  the  other. 
They  responded  with  effusion  that  if  the  sahib  would 
find  bricks  and  mortar  and  labour  they  would  do  the 
rest.  Yet,  though  not  self-helpful,  they  remained 
polite,  and  desired  that  their  lords  would  honour  them 
by  drinking  a  cup  of  milk.  So  two  little  earthen  cups 
were  brought,  of  the  material  of  flower-pots,  and  into 
them  was  poured  milk  still  hot  from  the  udder.  Their 
lords  drank;  and  then  the  cups  were  smashed  to  earth. 
They  were  useless  now :  the  man  of  meanest  caste 
would  never  drink  out  of  a  cup  that  had  been  polluted 
by  white  lips.  Water  was  brought,  and  the  man  who 
121 


The    Villagers 

had  poured  out  the  milk  washed  his  hands  thoroughly. 
The  landlord  asked  his  manager  if  he  would  take  milk 
too :  he  shook  his  head,  with  a  smile ;  for  he  is  a 
Brahman,  and  is  as  much  above  drinking  from  a  vessel 
that  a  lower  caste  has  touched  as  the  lower  caste  is 
above  drinking  after  a  sahib. 

Now,  as  the  bits  of  potsherd  were  still  trembling  on 
the  ground,  there  struck  up  a  loud,  half-rollicking, 
half-wailing  chorus  behind  the  corner  of  the  wall. 
There  appeared  a  little  group  of  women  in  very  faded 
garments,  half-veiling  their  faces  carefully,  half-turn- 
ing their  backs.  These  were  low-caste  women,  and 
they  were  singing  a  hymn  expressive  of  the  virtues  of 
the  landlord.  That  also  is  use  and  wont.  The  sub- 
ject of  their  praise  called  up  one  grand-dam  and  gave 
her  silver,  and  the  chorus  stopped,  amid  the  approv- 
ing salaams  of  the  village.  They  will  call  you 
"  Lord  "  and  "  Protector  of  the  Poor  "  ;  they  will 
sing  hymns  to  you  ;  but  they  smash  the  bowl  you 
drank  from.  What  could  be  more  eloquent  of  the 
land  of  contradictions  ? 

The  cultivator,  to  whom  both  these  formalities  are 
religion,  is  not,  you  will  have  concluded,  a  being  of 
developed  intelligence.  He  is  neither  beautiful  nor 
rich,  gifted  nor  industrious,  nor  especially  virtuous, 
nor  even  amiable.  He  loves  and  cherishes  his  chil- 
dren with  a  solicitude  that  is  truly  beautiful :  for  that, 
and  because  he  is  a  simple  creature,  you  love  him. 
Yet  he  is  as  malignant  as  he  is  simple,  always  has  an 
122 


The   Villagers 

enemy,  and  sticks  at  nothing  in  the  world  to  ruin  him. 
The  cultivator  presents  only  one  point  of  interest, 
which  is  that  there  are  two  hundred  and  forty  millions 
of  him.  He  is  clothed  in  calico  and  fed  on  un- 
leavened dough,  called  chaputties,  and  on  pulse.  He 
has  two  distractions — marriages  and  funerals.  At 
these  he  feasts  all  his  neighbours,  and  spends  all  he 
has  and  more.  To  make  up,  he  borrows  from  the 
village  bunnia,  who  is  shopkeeper  and  Shylock  in  one. 
The  bunnia  charges  thirty-seven  and  a-half  per  cent, 
as  a  minimum.  When  harvest  comes,  he  takes  over 
the  ryot's  corn  and  credits  him  for  it,  not  at  market 
price,  but  on  a  scale  of  his  own.  The  ryot  keeps 
back  enough,  perhaps,  for  a  few  weeks'  food  :  after 
that  he  must  come  to  the  bunnia  for  seed  at  sowing- 
time,  and  weekly  through  the  year  for  his  children's 
food.  The  bunnia  lends  him  back  his  own  corn  at 
thirty-seven  and  a-half  to  seventy-five  per  cent. 
Presently,  it  may  be,  the  bunnia  takes  one  of  the 
ryot's  bullocks  in  part-payment,  and  the  man  makes 
shift  to  plough  with  one.  He  does  it  very  badly, 
though  not  much  worse  than  he  would  have  done 
with  the  two.  Then,  perhaps,  the  bunnia  takes  the 
other  bullock,  and  then — but  rarely,  for  this  is  killing 
the  goose — the  land.  Or  it  may  be  the  ryot  has  the 
luck  to  live  all  his  life  without  paying  his  creditor 
anything  beyond  his  whole  income,  less  his  bare  live- 
lihood. Then  he  dies  happy,  and  bequeathes  the  re- 
mainder of  his  debt  to  his  son.  On  that  capital  the 
123 


The    Villagers 

son  cheerfully  starts  upon  life,  and  never  dreams  of 
repudiating. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  landlord  offers  to  buy  crops 
at  market  rate  and  to  advance  seed-corn  at  market 
rate,  charging  only  six  per  cent,  interest,  the  culti- 
vator smiles  cunningly  and  declines.  He  knows  that 
the  landlord  will  not  lend  him  for  weddings  and 
funerals,  and  if  he  borrows  seed  from  the  landlord 
neither  will  the  bunnia ;  so  he  goes  back  to  his  thirty- 
seven  and  a-half.  He  has  only  his  own  ignorance, 
indolence,  and  thriftlessness  to  thank  for  his  wretched- 
ness. He  is  miserable,  and  he  is  content.  Every- 
body else  in  India  has  a  grievance :  the  cultivator,  the 
backbone  of  the  country  and  the  worst-used  man  in 
it,  has  none. 

That  his  situation  really  is  his  fault,  you  may  con- 
vince yourself  by  going  on  ten  miles  or  so  to  a  Jat 
village.  The  Jats  are  a  not  very  illustrious  tribe, 
whose  centre  a  hundred  years  ago  was  Bhurtpur :  at 
that  period  they  rose  to  military  eminence,  and  when- 
ever they  were  short  of  cash  looted  Agra;  also  they 
inflicted  on  our  arms  one  of  the  severest  defeats  we 
ever  got  in  India.  As  cultivators,  the  Jats  are  excel- 
lently good,  being  both  expert  and  of  an  unwearied 
industry. 

Even   before   their   village   peeps   from   behind   its 

thickets,  you  notice  that  the  road  is  exceptional — not 

metalled,   of    course,   but    still    flat   and   fairly   level. 

The  bullocks  you  meet  in  the  heavy-wheeled  carts  are 

124 


The    Villagers 

big  and  well-thriven.  In  the  village  itself,  the  houses 
are  mostly  of  sun-dried  mud,  it  is  true,  but  they  are 
stable  and  lofty ;  moreover,  before  several  of  the  best 
lay  piles  of  fire-burnt  brick.  One  Croesus  actually 
had  a  tall  burnt-brick  gateway  with  a  many-pointed 
arch.  There  were  more  brass  vessels  to  be  seen  than 
earthern,  which  is  a  sure  sign  of  prosperity.  Then 
there  was  a  little  hole  in  the  corner  wall  for  a  lamp  at 
night,  which  reeked  of  public  spirit ;  and  in  one  rich 
man's  court  were  no  less  than  two  horses.  His  house 
was  well-built ;  its  sole  furniture  was  six  wood-framed 
cord-strung  bedsteads  and  some  brazen  pots.  But 
that  is  all  he  and  his  family  want,  and  his  two- 
year-old  filly  will  bring  him  a  little  fortune  at  the 
horse-fair  next  month. 

Even  in  the  excitement  of  the  landlord's  visit,  the 
secret  of  Jat  prosperity  was  plain  enough — simply 
work.  At  the  entrance  to  the  village  the  sugar-mill 
was  going — three  dumpy,  upright  rollers  revolved  by 
a  lever,  which  two  oxen  pulled  round  and  round ;  as 
a  boy  thrust  in  the  cane,  the  squeezed  fragments  of 
stalk  fell  out  on  one  side  to  be  used  for  fuel,  and  the 
juice  ran  into  a  tank  on  the  other.  It  was  boiling  in 
vats  under  a  roof  hard  by,  and  the  yellow  result — 
pease-pudding  you  would  have  called  it  at  ten  yards 
— was  already  being  made  into  cakes  of  the  finished 
product.  The  man  who  invented  the  machine  gets 
back  its  cost  in  two  years'  hire  of  it,  and  has  made 
a  fortune.  But  the  Jats  do  well  with  their  sugar, 
125 


The   Villagers 

despite  the  rent  of  the  machine.  They  work  day  and 
night  at  it,  yoke  relieving  yoke  of  oxen ;  and  they  toil 
thus  at  everything. 

But  in  this  world  even  Jats  are  not  always  happy. 
When,  at  the  village  meeting-place,  after  the  milk- 
bowls  were  duly  smashed,  the  landlord  asked  if  all 
was  well,  a  mean-looking  young  man,  holding  the 
manager's  horse,  cried  aloud  that  it  was  not.  He  was 
of  a  low  caste,  which  in  towns  usually  works  in 
leather,  in  villages  does  any  menial  labour  it  can. 
Now,  in  this  village  were  sixteen  families  of  the  caste, 
and  the  manager  had  promised  them  the  lease  of 
certain  land  then  held  by  the  headman  of  the  village. 
But  Hukm  Singh  had  not  given  it  up,  cried  the 
shabby  youth,  and,  moreover,  had  oppressed  their 
people  and  got  a  decree  from  the  law-court  by  fraud 
and  attached  their  standing  crops.  "  Is  it  even  so  ?  " 
said  the  landlord.  "  Come  then  to  my  tents  in  the 
afternoon,  and  let  Hukm  Singh  come  also."  For 
the  headman,  at  the  moment,  was  discreetly  absent. 
u  Will  I  come  ?  "  cried  the  young  man  of  low  caste. 
"  I  will  run ;  I  will  follow  my  lord  now." 

Every  afternoon  the  sahib  sits  in  his  office-tent  and 
his  tenants  squat  before  him  and  cry  aloud  their 
plaints,  and  he  does  justice  between  them,  as  it  was  in 
the  age  of  gold.  First  comes,  out  of  politeness,  the 
owner  of  the  mango-grove  we  are  camped  in.  "You 
see,  I  am  again  camping  on  your  land,"  says  the  sahib. 
"  I  am  my  lord's,"  replies  the  owner,  radiant  in  gold- 
126 


The    Villagers 

braided  cap,  dove-coloured  cloth  coat,  and  clean 
white  drawers  that  cling  like  a  skin,  "  and  all  that  is 
mine  is  my  lord's."  Then  he  goes  on  to  complain 
that  he  has  lost  three  thousand  rupees  by  a  speculation 
in  corn,  and  more  besides  by  hoar-frost  and  the  want 
of  the  Christmas  rain.  He  recalls  with  a  sigh  the 
golden  day  when  a  cavalry  regiment,  marching  from 
Aligarh,  camped  in  the  middle  of  his  wheat-field ; 
whereafter  the  native  officials  did  indeed  intercept 
his  compensation  on  its  way  to  him,  but  by  reason  of 
the  manure  he  got  the  best  crop  ever  seen  in  any 
country.  "  If  the  merciful  God  will  send  us  rain," 
he  sighs,  rising,  "  it  may  yet  be  well "  ;  and  goes  out, 
knowing  himself  none  the  less  to  be  a  rich  man  and 
the  best-reputed  in  all  the  country-side.  For  when 
his  father  died  he  feasted  sixteen  villages ! 

Next  the  complaints.  The  manager  sits  on  the 
floor  at  the  landlord's  feet,  and  the  clerk,  sitting  be- 
side him,  reads  out  Hindustani  documents  in  a  de- 
corous official  drone.  While  he  still  reads,  the 
plaintiff,  squatting  on  his  heels  in  the  dust-clothed, 
pucker-faced,  starveling  ring  outside  the  tent,  breaks 
in  ;  before  he  is  well  started  the  defendant  adds  a 
third  voice  to  the  chorus.  Each  slaps  his  palm  and 
waves  his  arms  with  conviction.  All  the  complaints 
are  of  robbery,  of  fraud  upon  the  poor  by  the  not- 
quite-so-poor.  An  official  of  the  estate  has  taken  five 
shillings  of  rent  and  given  no  receipt;  a  man  was 
granted  a  plot  for  his  house,  but  his  brother,  who  al- 
127 


The    Villagers 

ready  had  enough,  has  seized  it,  and  will  not  let  him 
build  thereon. 

Then  come  the  low-caste  people  and  the  headman. 
The  case,  which  the  courts  only  made  worse,  now 
takes  what  you  call  a  sensational  development.  "  My 
lord,"  says  the  defendant,  "  it  is  even  so.  I  lied  be- 
fore the  court,  but  before  the  Presence  I  cannot  lie. 
It  was  thus.  When  I  told  the  manager  I  would  quit 
the  land,  I  believed  it  was  to  be  let  to  men  of  my 
own  caste.  But  when  I  found  it  was  to  these,  what 
could  I  do  ?  So  I  told  the  manager  I  would  give  up 
the  land  and  did  not."  It  should  be  explained  that  a 
landlord  can  only  evict  a  tenant  during  three  months 
of  the  year,  when  the  fields  are  presumably  bare  of 
tillage ;  and  by  his  promise  to  the  manager  the  wily 
headman  had  staved  over  this  period.  "  Then,  when 
these  people  trouble  me,"  he  adds,  entirely  unashamed, 
though  his  victims  and  half  his  acquaintance  are 
squatting  by,  "  I  went  to  the  village  accountant,  and 
since  three  families  of  them  owed  me  money  and  I 
had  no  bond,  I  induced  him  to  write  in  his  register 
that  this  was  not  a  loan  but  rent.  So  I  went  to  the 
court  and  we  swore,  and  attached  their  crops." 
Again,  it  must  be  explained  that  there  is  a  summary 
process  to  recover  rent,  but  not  to  recover  other 
debts :  the  headman  had  bribed  the  accountant  to 
falsify  his  register  by  way  of  putting  on  the  screw ; 
and  the  court  had  believed  the  headman  and  the 
registrar. 

128 


The    Villagers 

The  rich  man  told  his  story  without  a  blush,  and 
none  of  his  countrymen  condemned  him.  But  the 
Presence  ordered  that  the  attachment  should  be  taken 
off  and  the  land  leased  to  the  poor  families  ;  at  the 
same  time  the  debtors  must  give  a  bond  and  repay  by 
easy  instalments  at  six  per  cent.  From  all  of  which 
proceedings  you  will  perceive  that  the  ryot's  foes  are 
of  his  own  household. 

So,  having  protected  the  poor,  the  landlord  strolls 
forth  into  the  divine  Indian  evening.  The  pungent 
peat-smelling  smoke  from  the  fires  lies  in  low  grey 
stripes  in  the  breathless  silence.  From  a  tower  in 
the  village  floats  the  voice  of  the  muezzin  as  he  calls 
the  believers  to  prayer.  At  the  well  mild-eyed  bul- 
locks draw  a  rope  down  an  incline ;  a  huge  leather 
bucket  comes  up,  and  is  emptied  into  the  stone  cis- 
terns and  conduits  about  the  base.  Men  are  washing 
their  clothes,  women  their  cooking-pots;  the  water- 
seller  fills  his  skin  and  carries  it  away,  dripping,  on 
his  brown  back.  Through  the  conduits  the  water 
sluices  out  among  the  barley ;  in  the  fields  men  with 
big-bladed  hoes  break  down  or  build  up  the  little 
earthen  embankments  that  guide  the  blessed  water 
this  way  and  that.  The  canal  the  Government  made 
is  full  to-day,  so  water  is  plentiful ;  it  runs  even  into 
the  waste  pool  whence  the  Government  made  a  drain 
and  siphoned  it  under  the  canal  to  carry  off  the  water- 
logging of  the  wet  season.  At  the  pool  the  washer- 
men are  beating  clothes  clean  against  large  stones. 
129 


The   Villagers 

In  a  field  embanked  into  little  chequers  an  old  man 
is  pricking  out  onions.  "  I  am  planting  them  for  my 
lord,"  says  he  with  politeness,  "  since  frost  killed  the 
potatoes  that  were  here."  "  Did  the  frost  then  go  so 
deep  down  into  the  ground  as  to  kill  the  potato 
roots  ?  "  asks  the  landlord,  incredulous.  "  If  you  cut 
off  a  man's  head,"  responds  the  sage,  "  how  shall  he 
walk  upon  his  feet  ? " 


130 


XIV 
THE  CITY  OF  SHAH  JEHAN 

THE  north-eastern  approach  to  Agra  is  through  a 
waste  of  land  at  the  same  time  flat  and  broken. 
Formless  hillocks  and  ditches,  colourless  sand  and 
dead  turf,  the  whole  scene  was  mean  and  depressing. 
I  raised  my  eyes,  and  there,  on  the  edge  of  the  ugly 
prairie,  sat  a  fair  white  palace  with  domes  and  min- 
arets. So  exquisite  in  symmetry,  so  softly  lustrous  in 
tint,  it  could  hardly  be  substantial,  and  I  all  but  cried, 
"  Mirage  !  "  It  was  the  Taj  Mahal. 

And  now  we  were  clanking  over  an  iron  bridge 
above  a  dark-green  river  that  rilled  barely  a  quarter  of 
its  sandy  bed ;  deep,  broad  staircases  stepped  down  to 
its  further  bank  with  pillared  pleasure-houses  over- 
looking them.  Now  on  the  right  rose  a  great  mosque, 
its  bellying  domes  zigzagged  with  red  and  white; 
dawn  from  the  left  frowned  the  weather-worn  battle- 
ments of  a  great  red  fortress.  This  was  the  city  of 
Shah  Jehan,  emperor  and  devotee,  artist  and  lover. 

And  this,  in  a  few  words,  is  the  passionate  story  of 
Shah  Jehan.  He  was  the  grandson  of  Akbar  the 
Great,  the  first  Mogul  Emperor  of  Hindustan. 
While  yet  Prince  Royal,  conquering  India  for  the 
Moguls,  he  married  the  beautiful  Persian,  Arjmand 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

Banu,  called  Mumtaz-i-Mahal,  the  chosen  of  the  palace, 
and  loved  her  tenderly  beyond  all  his  wives  for  fourteen 
years.  But  only  a  year  after  he  became  Sultan  she  died 
in  travail  of  her  eighth  child.  Shah  Jehan  in  his  grief 
swore  that  she  should  have  the  loveliest  tomb  the 
world  ever  beheld,  and  for  seventeen  years  he  built 
the  Taj  Mahal.  Also  he  built  the  palace  of  Agra, 
the  fort  and  palace  of  Delhi,  and  the  great  mosque  of 
Agra ;  he  took  to  wife  many  fair  ladies,  and  lived  in 
all  luxuriousness,  ministering  abundantly  to  every 
sense,  till  he  had  reigned  thirty  years.  Then  his  son 
Aurungzebe  rose  up  and  dethroned  him,  and  kept  him 
a  close  prisoner  in  his  own  private  mosque,  which  he 
had  built  within  the  palace  of  Agra.  There  he  lived 
seven  years  more,  attended  by  his  daughter  Jehanara, 
who  would  not  leave  him,  till  at  last,  in  1645,  being 
grown  very  feeble,  he  begged  to  be  laid  in  a  chamber 
of  the  palace  wherefrom  he  could  see  the  Taj  Mahal. 
This  was  granted  him,  so  that  he  died  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  tomb  of  the  love  of  his  youth.  There  they 
buried  him  beside  her.  And  his  daughter,  when  her 
time  came,  wrote  a  Persian  stanza  begging  that  no 
monument  should  be  set  up  to  "  the  humble  transitory 
Jehanara,"  and  praying  only  for  her  father's  soul. 

Agra  is  the  mirror  of  Shah  Jehan.  In  the  fort  and 
palace  you  can  read  all  the  story  of  the  warrior  and 
the  lover — in  the  fort  so  nakedly  grim  without  and 
the  palace  so  richly  voluptuous  within.  Under  the 
brow  of  the  sheer  sandstone  walls  you  are  dwarfed  to 
132 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

a  pigmy.  Before  and  beneath  the  great  gateway 
stands  a  double  curtain  of  loophole  and  machicolation 
and  tower  :  you  go  in  through  cavernous  guard-houses, 
up  a  ramp  between  sky-closing  walls.  Only  thus  do 
you  reach  the  real  entrance — the  great  Elephant 
Gate — two  jutting  octagon  towers  supporting  spacious 
chambers  thrown  across  the  passage.  On  the  lower 
storey  all  is  closed,  and  only  white  plaster  designs  re- 
lieve the  savage  masses  of  the  sandstone ;  in  the  upper 
balconies  are  windows  and  recesses,  all  decked  with 
white,  and  above  all  runs  a  gallery  crowned  with  cupolas. 
Under  this  arch  you  go,  a  dome  above,  deep  and 
lofty  recesses  on  either  hand ;  now  you  are  past  the 
sternness.  Shah  Jehan  is  soldier  no  longer  but  artist 
and  amorist  at  large.  You  come  to  the  Pearl  Mosque. 
There  is  a  Pearl  Mosque  at  Delhi,  sandstone  slabs 
without,  marble  within,  as  this  is ;  but  the  Delhi 
mosque  is  a  bauble  to  this.  This  is  a  broad  court, 
paved  with  slabs  of  marble,  veined  with  white  and 
blue,  grey  and  yellow.  This  is  all  marble — marble 
walls  with  moulded  panels,  marble  cloisters  of  multi- 
foliate  arches,  marble  gateways  breaking  three  walls 
of  the  square,  marble  columns  supporting  bell-cupolas 
above  them  and  at  each  corner,  a  marble  basin  in  the 
centre  of  the  court,  a  marble  sundial  beside  it.  Along 
the  west  side  of  the  court  shines  the  glorious  face  of 
the  mosque  itself — only  a  roofed  quarter  of  the  whole 
space,  a  mere  portico,  but  colonnaded  with  three  rows 
of  seven  pillars  apiece,  each  branching  to  right  and 

'33 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

left,  to  front  and  back,  with  eight-pointed,  nine-leaved 
arches.  Along  the  entablature  above  runs  a  Persian 
inscription  in  mosaic  of  black  marble ;  on  the  roof, 
over  each  pillar  of  the  front  row,  is  a  cupola  with 
four  columns,  and  at  each  corner  a  cupola  with  eight 
columns.  Three  domes  fold  their  broad  white  wings 
behind  and  above  all. 

Three  steps  for  the  mullah  to  preach  from,  and  that 
is  all  the  catalogue.  No  altar  or  shrine  or  image : 
there  is  no  god  but  God.  No  carving  or  lattice-work : 
but  the  simple  pillars  and  arches,  the  few  cupolas  and 
domes,  are  yet  the  richest  of  ornamentation.  No 
paint  or  gems — only  the  clear  harmonious  veining  of 
the  marble.  Only  space  and  proportion,  form  and 
whispers  of  colour — and  it  is  so  beautiful  that  you 
can  hardly  breathe  for  rapture.  The  radiant  marble 
ripples  from  shade  to  shade — snow-white,  pearl-white, 
ivory-white — till  it  seems  half  alive.  The  bells  and 
pinnacles  are  so  light  that  they  seem  to  float  in  the 
air.  It  cannot  be  a  building,  you  whisper :  it  is  en- 
chantment. 

But  now  go  on  to  the  palace.  It  has  been  battered 
and  sacked — the  Jats  of  Bhurtpur  carried  away  the 
precious  stones  from  the  walls  ;  but  through  the  res- 
torations you  can  dream  of  some  of  its  delights  when 
it  held  the  houris  of  Shah  Jehan.  Dream  this  and  it 
is  all  enchantment ;  you  have  arrived  at  last — at  last, 
after  so  many  years,  after  so  many  leagues — in  the 
dear  country  of  your  earliest  dreams,  and  the  Arabian 
134 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

Nights  are  come  to  life.  Under  this  pillared  hall  the 
ambassadors  of  Shiraz  and  Samarkand  are  making 
their  obeisance  and  displaying  rich  gifts.  Above,  in 
the  marble  alcove  festooned  with  flowers  and  tendrils 
in  pietra  dura,  reclines  the  Sultan  of  the  Indies  on  a 
couch  of  white  marble.  Up  the  stairs — and  here,  en- 
closed by  a  colonnade  of  two  storeys,  is  the  fish-pond ; 
on  the  upper  terrace  under  that  canopy,  which  is  one 
block  of  creamy  marble  embossed  with  flowers,  sits 
the  lovely  favourite  Schemselnihar,  and  makes  believe 
to  angle.  She  rises  and  follows  the  other  lights  of 
the  harem  into  the  little  square  court  and  portico  that 
miniature  the  great  Pearl  Mosque  without.  But 
some  of  the  beauties  turn  aside  to  the  gallery,  where, 
below,  is  an  enclosed  bazaar;  handsome  young  mer- 
chants of  Baghdad  tempt  them  with  silks  and  brocades 
— and  with  looks  that  sigh  and  languish.  They  had 
best  be  prudent :  eyes  as  fathomless  as  theirs  have 
grown  dim  in  the  dungeons  under  the  terraces,  below 
the  water.  From  lust  to  cruelty  is  only  a  step ;  and 
when  the  Sultan  raised  the  marble  and  the  gems  he 
sank  the  dungeon,  remote  in  a  labyrinth  of  tunnels. 
Across  it  is  a  beam  with  a  noose  for  soft  necks  and  a 
shoot  for  frail  bodies  that  tumbles  them  into  the  Jumna. 
The  Sultan  has  risen  from  his  audience  :  he  walks 
round  the  terrace,  through  the  delicious  Hall  of 
Private  Audience,  whose  walls  are  marble,  whose 
pillars  are  festooned  with  creepers  in  agate  and  jasper, 
jade  and  cornelian,  whose  ends  are  profound  and 

'35 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

graceful  recesses,  half-arch,  half-dome.  He  passes  to 
the  heavy  slab  of  the  black  marble  throne  on  the 
riverside  brink  of  the  quadrangle ;  in  the  pit  below 
they  let  out  buffaloes  and  tigers  to  fight  before  him ; 
on  the  white  seat  behind  him  sits  the  court  jester  to 
make  him  merry. 

And  now — it  is  the  full  moon  that  rises  from  an 
arch  of  the  pavilion  to  the  right — the  full  moon, 
though  it  is  still  broad  day  ?  It  is  the  Sultaness-in- 
Chief  looking  out  at  the  fight  from  her  abode  in  the 
Jasmine  Tower.  She  has  grown  tired  of  throwing  the 
dice,  while  her  handmaidens  stand  for  pieces  on  the 
pachisi-board  that  is  let  into  her  marble  pavement — 
there,  behind  those  duenna  screens,  the  gauze  of 
lattice-work  that  encloses  her  courtyard.  She  has 
grown  tired  of  dabbling  in  the  fountain  that  tinkles 
on  the  shallow  basin  of  figured  marble,  weary  of  her 
bower  of  marble  inlaid  with  gems.  The  Sultan  rises, 
and  it  is  the  signal  for  the  bath — the  bath  in  the  dark 
Mirror  Palace,  lighted  with  a  score  of  flambeaux  and 
walled  with  a  million  tiny  mirrors,  that  reflect  .  .  . 
No ;  we  must  not  think  of  it — nor  of  the  feast  in  the 
Private  Palace,  under  the  ceiling  emblazoned  with 
blue  and  crimson  and  gold — nor  yet  of  the  disrobing 
in  the  Golden  Pavilion,  where  the  ladies  thrust  their 
jewels  into  holes  in  the  wall  too  narrow  for  a  man's 
arm  to  follow  them.  .  .  .  No;  you  should  not 
listen  to  what  the  Jester  is  saying  now. 

But  if  you  envy  Shah  Jehan,  look  again  later  into 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

the  tiny  Gem  Mosque  and  the  cupboard  at  the  side, 
too  small  to  turn  in,  where  he  is  the  uncrowned 
prisoner  of  his  son.  No  Mirror  Palace  now :  the 
ceiling  is  black  where  they  heat  the  water  for  his 
bath,  in  a  hole  of  a  cistern  where  he  cannot  stretch 
out  his  limbs.  Look  again  into  the  little  gilt-domed 
cupola,  where  he  lies  dying,  and  Jehanara's  voice 
sounds  suddenly  far  away ;  and  the  very  Taj,  though 
he  knows  every  angle  and  curve  of  it,  swims  in  a 
grey-white  blur;  and  nothing  is  left  clear  save  the 
voice  and  face  of  the  beautiful  Persian,  Arjmand 
Banu,  whose  palankeen  followed  all  his  campaigns  in 
the  days  when  empire  was  still  a-winning,  whose 
children  called  him  father — Arjmand  Banu,  silent  and 
unseen  now  for  four-and-thirty  years,  the  wife  of  his 
youth. 

Now  follow  him  to  the  Taj.  Under  the  great  gate- 
way of  strong  sandstone  ribbed  with  delicate  marble, 
its  vaulted  red  arch  cobwebbed  with  white  threads, 
and  then  before  you — then  the  miracle  of  miracles, 
the  final  wonder  of  the  world.  In  chaste  majesty  it 
stands  suddenly  before  you,  as  if  the  magical  word 
had  called  it  this  moment  out  of  the  earth.  On  a 
white  marble  platform  it  stands  exactly  four-square, 
but  that  the  angles  are  cut  off;  nothing  so  rude  as 
a  corner  could  find  place  in  its  soft  harmonies.  Seen 
through  the  avenue,  it  looks  high  rather  than  broad ; 
seen  from  the  pavement  below  it,  it  looks  broad  rather 
than  high ;  you  doubt,  then  conclude  that  its  pro- 
137 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

portions  are  perfect.  Above  its  centre  rises  a  full 
white  dome,  at  each  corner  of  whose  base  nestles  a 
smaller  dome,  upheld  on  eight  arches.  The  centre  of 
each  face  is  a  lofty-headed  gateway  rising  above  the 
line  of  the  roof;  within  it  is  again  a  pointed  caving 
recess,  half  arch,  half  dome ;  within  this,  again,  a 
screen  of  latticed  marble.  On  each  flank  of  these, 
and  on  the  facets  of  the  cut-off  angles,  are  pairs  of 
smaller,  blind  recesses  of  the  same  design,  one  above 
the  other.  From  each  junction  of  facets  rises  a  slim 
pinnacle.  Everywhere  it  is  embellished  with  elabor- 
ate profusion.  Moulding,  sculpture,  inlaid  frets  and 
scrolls  of  coloured  marbles,  twining  branches  and  gar- 
lands of  jade  and  agate  and  cornelian — here  is  every 
point  of  lavish  splendour  you  saw  in  the  palace  com- 
bined in  one  supreme  embodiment — superb  dignity 
matched  with  graceful  richness. 

But  it  is  vain  to  flounder  amid  epithets ;  the  man 
who  should  describe  the  Taj  must  own  genius  equal 
to  his  who  built  it.  Description  halts  between  its 
mass  and  its  fineness.  It  makes  you  giddy  to  look  up 
at  it,  yet  it  is  so  delicate  you  feel  that  a  brick  would 
lay  it  in  shivers  at  your  feet.  It  is  a  rock  temple  and 
a  Chinese  casket  together — a  giant  gem. 

Nothing  jars;  for  if  the  jewel  were  away  the  set- 
ting would  still  be  among  the  noblest  monuments  on 
earth.  The  minarets  at  the  four  corners  of  the  plat- 
form are  a  moment's  stumbling-block :  they  look  ir- 
reverently like  the  military  masts  of  a  battleship,  and 
138 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

the  hard  lines  where  the  stones  join  remind  you  of  a 
London  subway.  But  look  at  the  Taj  itself,  and  the 
minarets  fall  instantly  into  place ;  they  set  off  its 
glories,  and,  standing  like  acolytes,  seem  to  be  chal- 
lenging you  not  to  worship  it.  At  each  side,  below 
the  Taj,  is  a  triple-domed  building  of  sandstone  and 
marble  ;  the  hot  red  throws  up  the  pearl-and-ivory 
softness  of  the  Taj.  The  cloisters  round  the  garden, 
the  lordly  caravanserai  outside  the  gate,  the  clustering 
domes  and  mosaic  texts  from  the  Koran  on  the  great 
gate  itself — all  this  you  hardly  notice ;  but  when  you 
do,  you  find  that  every  point  is  perfection.  As  for 
the  garden,  with  shady  trees  of  every  hue,  from 
sprightly  yellow  to  funereal  cypress,  with  purple  blos- 
soms cascading  from  the  topmost  boughs,  with  roses 
and  lilies,  phloxes  and  carnations — and  the  channel  of 
clear  water  with  twenty  fountains  that  runs  through 
the  garden,  and  the  basin  with  the  goldfish.  .  .  . 
It  is  pure  Arabian  Nights  !  You  listen  for  the  speak- 
ing bird  and  the  singing  tree.  And  was  it  not  hither 
that  Prince  Ahmed,  leaving  his  brother  Ali  to  cuddle 
Nuronnihar  in  the  palace,  followed  his  arrow  ?  And 
is  not  that  the  fairy  Peri-Banu  coming  out  of  the 
pleasure-house  to  welcome  him  ?  Surely  man  never 
made  such  a  Paradise :  it  must  be  the  fabric  of  a 
dream  wafted  through  gates  of  silver  and  opal. 

O  Shah  Jehan,  Shah  Jehan,  you  are  bewitching  a 
respectable    newspaper-correspondent.     The   thought 
of   you    is  strong  wine.       Shah    Jehan,    with    your 
139 


The  City  of  Shah  Jehan 

queens  and  concubines  without  number,  their  amber 
feet  mirrored  in  marble,  their  ivory  limbs  mirrored 
in  quicksilver;  Shah  Jehan,  who  starved  them  in 
the  black  oubliettes,  and  hung  them  from  the  mouldy 
beam,  and  sluiced  their  beautiful  bodies  into  the 
cold  river ;  Shah  Jehan,  with  elephants  and  peacocks ; 
Shah  Jehan,  returning  from  the  conquered  Dekhan, 
dismounting  in  the  Armoury  Square,  hastening 
through  the  Grape  Garden,  hastening  past  the  fair 
ones  in  the  Golden  Pavilion  to  the  fairest  within  the 
Jasmine  Tower! 

Shah  Jehan — Grape  Garden — Golden  Pavilion — 
Jasmine  Tower — there  is  dizzy  magic  in  the  very 
names.  And  when  I  turn  aside  in  your  garden,  shun- 
ning your  fierce  black-and-scarlet  petals  to  bring  back 
my  senses  with  English  stocks  and  pansies,  the  sight 
of  your  Taj  through  the  trees  sends  my  brain  areel 
again.  I  go  in  and  stand  by  your  tomb.  The  jewel- 
creepers  blossom  more  luxuriantly  than  ever  in  the 
trellised  screen  that  encloses  it,  and  the  two  oblong 
cenotaphs  are  embowered  in  gems.  But  here  it  is 
dark  and  cool :  light  comes  in  only  through  double 
lattices  of  feathery  marble.  You  look  up  into  a  dome, 
obscure  and  mysterious,  but  mightily  expansive,  as  it 
were  the  vault  of  the  heaven  of  the  dead.  It  is  very 
well ;  it  is  the  fit  close.  In  this  breathless  twilight, 
after  his  battles  and  buildings,  his  ecstasies  and  tor- 
ments, his  love  and  his  loss,  Shah  Jehan  has  come  to 
his  own  again  for  ever. 

140 


XV 
THE  RULERS  OF  INDIA 

THIS  short  chapter  contains  nothing  new  or 
original.  It  is  merely  abstracted  from  books  within 
the  reach  of  everybody,  and  inserted  here  to  save  you 
the  trouble  of  reaching  them.  In  India  you  get  a 
chance  of  seeing  the  actual  work  of  Government 
being  carried  on — such  a  chance  as  is  hardly  possible 
at  home.  What  is  done  in  England  in  the  offices  of 
county  councils  or  town  councils,  boards  of  guardians 
or  school  boards,  or  often  of  private  companies,  is 
usually  done  in  India  by  one  man  sitting  in  a  tent. 
But  the  actual  instrument  of  Government  works,  of 
course,  under  a  superstructure  of  higher  authority. 
He,  to  most  observers,  is  the  most  interesting  wheel 
in  the  machine ;  but  to  understand  the  nature  and 
extent  of  his  functions  it  is  necessary  to  have  an  idea 
of  the  higher  authorities  also. 

The  ultimate  power  in  the  Government  of  India  is 
yourself.  You,  the  British  elector — subject  to  the 
usual  formality  of  getting  enough  of  the  other  electors 
to  agree  with  you — can  do  with  India  exactly  what 
you  please.  You  control  Parliament ;  Parliament 
controls  the  Cabinet;  the  Cabinet  controls  the  Secre- 
141 


The  Rulers  of  India 

tary  of  State  for  India,  and  the  Secretary  of  State  con- 
trols the  Viceroy.  And  in  India  the  Viceroy  is 
supreme.  He  controls  the  Lieutenant-Governors  of 
provinces,  and  they  control  the  Commissioners  of 
Divisions,  and  they  control  the  District  Officers,  who 
control  the  people  of  India. 

There  is  a  good  long  ladder,  you  observe,  between 
you  and  the  natives  of  India.  In  the  last  resort,  if  a 
question  of  very  vital  interest  arose,  you  would  dispose 
of  their  destiny.  In  the  meantime,  this  House-that- 
Jack-built  of  control  is  only  occasionally  and  partially 
effective — which  is  just  as  well  for  India.  As  it  is, 
the  Secretary  of  State,  the  Cabinet,  and  Parliament 
probably  have  far  too  much  to  say  about  Indian 
administration.  So,  at  least,  thinks  everybody  in 
India ;  for  where  they  have  anything  to  say  they  are 
more  likely  than  not — most  naturally,  seeing  that  they 
know  next  to  nothing  about  it — to  say  the  wrong 
thing.  It  is  one  of  the  unthinking  commonplaces 
of  the  day  to  say  that  Parliament  and  the  electorate 
are  shamefully  apathetic  about  India;  that  the  thin 
attendance  on  an  Indian  Budget  night  shows  a  dis- 
graceful insensibility  to  the  plain  duty  of  a  legislator ; 
that  our  political  men  should  all  visit  India;  and  so 
on,  to  infinity  and  to  nausea.  Doubtless  a  visit  to 
India  might  be  a  useful  part  of  a  political  education, 
if  the  visitor  had  the  prudence  to  spend  most  of  his 
time  collecting  and  collating  the  views  of  experts,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  form  independent  opinions  on 
142 


The  Rulers  of  India 

subjects  where  a  lifetime's  observation  still  leaves 
you  ignorant.  But  as  for  Indian  Budgets  and 
Indian  questions,  it  wants  only  a  moment  of  com- 
mon-sense to  see  that  those  who  know  nothing  of 
India  show  their  best  wisdom  in  leaving  such  to  those 
who  do. 

However,  let  that  pass  for  the  present.  Keeping 
this  exposition  to  the  authorities  within  India,  the 
Viceroy  is  assisted  by  a  Council,  which  practically 
constitutes  his  Cabinet.  Lord  Curzon  represents  the 
Prime  Minister  and  Foreign  Secretary ;  the  Financial 
member  is  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  the 
Military  member  Secretary  for  War;  two  members 
of  the  Civil  Service  take  charge  respectively  of  the 
Home  Department  and  of  Public  Works ;  while  the 
Legal  member,  who  must  be  a  barrister  of  five  years' 
standing,  exists  for  the  purpose  of  drafting  bills. 
Each  of  these  Cabinet  Ministers  has  a  permanent 
secretary  under  him  and  an  office,  as  in  Whitehall. 
The  Commander-in-chief  in  India  is  an  extraordinary 
member  of  this  Council. 

For  purposes  of  law-making,  the  Viceroy's  Council 
is  increased  by  additional  members,  who  are  not  to 
be  less  than  ten  nor  more  than  sixteen.  The  duties 
of  these  are  purely  consultative :  they  have  no  hand 
in  the  actual  work  of  government.  Six  of  these  are 
officials,  and  about  half  are  natives.  Of  the  non- 
official  members  four  are  nominated  by  the  non- 
official  members  of  subordinate  provincial  councils, 


The  Rulers  of  India 

and  a  fifth  by  the  Calcutta  Chamber  of  Commerce. 
This  you  might  call  the  Parliament  of  India.  It 
meets  round  a  long  table  in  Government  House — 
portraits  of  past  Viceroys  on  the  wall,  a  row  of 
dining-room  chairs  for  the  public,  members  sitting 
down  to  speak.  Altogether,  it  looks  much  more  like 
a  board  of  directors  than  a  legislative  assembly.  The 
proceedings  are  not  exciting,  nor  even  audible ;  there 
is  hardly  ever  a  division.  No  measure  can  be  intro- 
duced unless  the  proposal  is  first  approved  in  the 
Executive,  or  Cabinet,  Council.  The  Legislative 
Council  itself  gets  through  most  of  its  work  in 
Select  Committees,  which  amend  or  recast  bills,  after 
they  have  been  brought  in  and  published,  in  the  light 
of  reports  made  upon  them  by  the  officials  in  the 
provinces  concerned. 

You  must  bear  in  mind,  though,  that  the  analogy 
with  the  Cabinet  or  the  House  of  Commons  is  a 
false  one  in  this  particular :  the  Viceroy,  subject  to 
the  approval  of  the  Secretary  of  State  at  home,  can 
override  even  the  unanimous  opinion  of  either  Coun- 
cil. He  is  merely  obliged,  in  that  case,  to  give  his 
reasons  for  so  doing  in  writing.  But  in  practice  the 
members  of  the  Council  are  bound  to  know  so  much 
more  of  the  details  of  the  business  than  the  Viceroy 
does,  that  this  power  is  very  seldom,  if  ever,  used. 

Under  the  Government  of  India  are  the  Provincial 
Governments,  which  miniature  the  central  authority. 
There  are  eight  provinces — Madras,  Bombay,  Bengal, 
144 


The  Rulers  of  India 

North-West  Provinces,  Punjab,  Burma,  Central  Prov- 
inces, and  Assam.  The  first  two  are  still  called 
presidencies,  and  get  their  Governors  from  home,  in- 
stead of  from  the  Civil  Service ;  but  the  distinction 
is  an  obsolete  and  insignificant  one.  The  next  four 
are  ruled  by  Lieutenant-Governors,  and  the  others  by 
Chief  Commissioners ;  but  here,  too,  the  distinction 
is  more  nominal  than  essential.  The  Governors  of 
Madras  and  Bombay,  and  the  Lieutenant-Governors 
of  Bengal  and  the  North-West  Provinces,  are  assisted 
by  bodies  similar  to  the  Viceroy's  Legislative  Coun- 
cil. Each  provincial  Governor  has  a  small  staff  of 
civil  servants  at  his  headquarters.  Civil  servants  are 
also  at  the  head  of  the  divisions  of  each  province  and 
the  districts  of  each  division,  while  there  is  a  large 
staff  of  what  is  called  the  Provincial  Civil  Service. 
These  officers  are  not  members  of  the  Indian  Civil 
Service,  properly  so-called,  which  is  recruited  by  ex- 
aminations in  England,  and  which,  in  virtue  more  of 
superior  ability  and  force  of  character  than  of  any 
privilege,  fills  most  of  the  higher  posts  in  the  public 
service.  The  members  of  the  provincial  services  are 
almost  entirely  native.  Below  them  comes  the  sub- 
ordinate civil  service — clerks,  messengers,  and  the 
like — who  are  wholly  native. 

The  institution  of  the  Provincial  Civil  Service  has 

proved    a    fairly    satisfactory    solution    of  a    difficult 

problem :  how   far  is   it  wise   or  possible  to  employ 

natives  in  civil  administration  ?     A  few  years  ago  the 

H5 


The  Rulers  of  India 

House  of  Commons  passed  a  resolution  ordering  that 
examinations  for  the  Indian  Civil  Service  proper 
should  be  held  in  India  as  well  as  in  London.  There 
could  hardly  be  a  more  childish  misconception  of  the 
true  reason  of  competitive  examination.  We  do  not 
want  scholars  to  govern  India  so  much  as  men  and 
gentlemen  of  good  physique,  unimpeachable  integrity, 
unbending  strength  of  will,  abundant  common-sense 
and  tact.  Only,  as  there  are  more  candidates  of  this 
kind  than  there  are  vacancies,  we  examine  them  in 
Greek  iambics  and  quaternions  as  the  most  convenient 
way  of  discriminating  among  them.  The  more 
necessary  qualities  we  assume  them — and  rightly,  as 
experience  shows — to  possess  in  roughly  equal  meas- 
ure. But  we  cannot  assume  that  such  natives  of  In- 
dia as  would  be  likely  to  succeed  in  competitive  ex- 
aminations would  possess  these  qualities — rather  the 
opposite.  To  allow  them  to  compete  in  such  exami- 
nations, whether  in  India  or  in  London,  is  about  as 
reasonable  as  to  allow  the  passengers  on  a  liner  to 
draw  lots  for  the  privilege  of  navigating  the  ship.  In 
the  provincial  services,  on  the  other  hand,  promotion 
is  by  approved  merit,  and  a  native  official  who  has 
shown  his  capacity  can  be  advanced  to  any  of  the 
positions  usually  held  by  members  of  the  Civil  Service 
itself. 

Under  the   provincial  Governors — except  in  Ma- 
dras, which   does  without  the  grade — are  the  Com- 
missioners.    Each   rule   a  group   of  districts  called  a 
146 


The  Rulers  of  India 

division.  Under  them  are  the  district  officers — 
variously  designated  in  various  provinces — who  are 
the  real  working  members  of  the  Government.  A 
district  is  the  administrative  unit  of  India;  it  is  com- 
plete in  itself,  and  its  head  is  responsible  for  every 
branch  of  its  working,  almost  for  everything  that 
happens  in  it.  This  is  the  case  throughout  India. 

If,  therefore,  you  want  to  see  the  Government  of 
India  at  its  daily  work,  dealing  with  the  people,  rais- 
ing its  taxes  and  spending  them,  toiling — as  it  is  al- 
ways unselfishly  toiling — for  the  benefit  of  the  na- 
tives, and  them  alone,  you  must  seek  out  the  district 
officer.  In  a  larger  unit  you  will  not  see  the  actual 
work ;  in  a  smaller,  you  will  not  see  it  all.  The  dis- 
trict officer  has  usually  two  or  three  members  of  the 
civil  service  under  him.  But,  as  a  rule,  not  more 
than  one  of  these  is  a  very  efficient  helper ;  the 
younger  have  yet  to  learn  the  vernacular  languages 
and  dialects — which  are  innumerable  and  infinitely 
various — and  their  duties  generally.  The  district 
officer  is  the  backbone  of  administrative  India. 


XVI 
THE  DISTRICT  OFFICER 

AT  the  moment  the  camel  deposited  me  at  his 
camp  he  was  hearing  appeals  from  the  orders  of  his 
subordinate  magistrates.  The  furniture  of  the  court 
consisted  of  a  desk,  all  in  clamps  and  joints  and 
hooks  for  taking  to  pieces  when  camp  is  struck,  and 
two  chairs.  Its  officials  were  three  native  clerks, 
cross-legged  on  the  floor  with  piles  of  papers  and 
inkhorns,  and  a  red-coated,  gold-sashed  orderly  at  the 
tent  door.  In  the  shadow  of  the  tent  snored  another, 
also  red-coated  and  gold-sashed,  like  all  Government 
messengers.  A  little  way  off  squatted  a  circle  of  bot- 
tomless-eyed brown  men — some  fat  with  gay  mantles, 
some  thin  with  wisps  of  calico — litigants,  appellants, 
petitioners,  policemen  in  dark-blue  tunics,  and  prison- 
ers in  irons.  There  floated  in  faint  cries  from  the 
village,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  the  pipe  of  birds  and 
the  guggle  of  camels. 

At  the  desk  sat  the  Presence — British  rule  incar- 
nate in  a  young  man  in  long  boots  and  a  green 
waterproof-khaki  shooting-jacket,  clean-shaven,  with 
an  eye  and  a  mouth  and  a  chin.  Thus  he  rules,  by 
himself,  his  kingdom  of  5000  square  miles  and 
800,000  souls. 

148 


The  District  Officer 

"  Roti  Ram "  says  the  cross-legged  clerk  on  the 
carpet;  "Roti  Ram"  bawls  the  beckoning  orderly  at 
the  door.  There  appears,  slipping  off  his  shoes  at 
the  entrance,  a  sleek  creature  in  a  flowered  cotton 
tunic,  like  the  chintz  in  which  ladies  cover  up  their 
sofas.  He  scoops  unctuously  at  the  carpet  and 
brings  his  hand  thence  to  his  turban ;  then  bows 
his  head  and  clasps  his  hands  in  the  attitude  of 
prayer.  The  clerk  patters  out  a  flowery  rigmarole 
of  mixed  Arabic  and  Persian,  blotted  only  by  a  few 
bare  necessary  disfigurements  in  the  way  of  Hindi 
words, — that  is  Hindustani,  the  official  language  of 
Northern  India.  When  he  has  finished,  the  Dis- 
trict Officer  raises  his  head  and  asks  three  questions 
in  the  vernacular;  Roti  Ram  replies,  with  voluble 
self-abasement.  Then  the  Sahib  utters  six  words, 
ending  with  "  Go."  Roti  Ram  takes  a  scoop  at  the 
carpet,  and,  shuffling  into  his  shoes,  goes. 

He  is  a  landlord,  and  had  desired  to  evict  certain 
of  his  tenants.  They  had  applied  to  the  British 
assistant  to  be  made  permanent,  occupancy  tenants, 
or,  in  the  alternative,  for  compensation.  Now  the 
landlord  appealed  against  the  rate  of  compensation 
allowed ;  the  assistant  is  young  and  new  to  the 
district,  and  had  fixed  it  at  a  rate  which  his  ex- 
perienced superior,  knowing  his  district  like  a  book, 
knows  the  land  will  not  bear.  Appeal  allowed  ;  Roti 
Ram  happy. 

"  Mukkan  Singh  !  "  "  Mukkan  Singh  !  "  A  wisp  of 
149 


The  District  Officer 

brown  arm  and  leg  in  a  dirty  orange  turban  palpi- 
tates in,  and  clasps  his  hands.  "  O  Cherisher  of  the 
Poor,"  he  begins,  and  then  falls  to  weeping.  "  Stop 
that,"  says  the  Cherisher  of  the  Poor,  with  stern- 
ness; he  stops  instantly,  and  in  a  voice  of  anguish 
pours  forth  his  tale.  A  villain  has  taken  away  his 
wife  and  married  her :  he  wants  to  prosecute  them 
for  bigamy. 

"  Where  did  you  marry  your  wife  ?  " 

"  O  Presence,  here — no ;  in  Gurgaon — no ;  it  was 
in  the  native  state  of — but  no;  the  Presence  will 
know  that " 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  O  Presence,  here — no ;  in  Gurgaon — no ;  she  was 
in  the  native  state — but  no ;  my  wife  left  my  house, 
O  my  father  and  mother,  and  went  first  to  Gurgaon, 
and  there  she  and  the  man  remained  but  a  little 
while,  and  then — "  And  then  Mukkan  Singh's 
brain  gives  altogether,  and  he  sobs  limply.  He  is 
removed  and  set  down  at  the  tent  door,  and  a  native 
clerk  with  a  soothing  manner  is  set  by  him  to  extract 
his  story  in  bits  as  his  senses  return.  Eventually — 
Application  for  warrant  to  be  made  elsewhere ; 
Mukkan  Singh  slightly  comforted. 

So  they  file  in  and  out,  one  after  another,  con- 
firming the  Persian  proverb  that  gold,  women,  and 
land  are  the  seed  of  all  troubles.  Presently  they 
are  all  done  with  for  the  moment ;  the  sun  is  drop- 
ping down  the  sky,  and  their  father  and  mother 
150 


The  District  Officer 

takes  time  for  a  cup  of  tea.  But  he  is  instantly 
back  in  his  office  again ;  he  has  yet  to  hear  the 
points  submitted  to  him  from  the  outlying  parts  of 
the  district,  besides  a  multitude  of  petitions.  When 
you  hear  them,  you  begin  to  realise  what  a  District 
Officer  is. 

1.  A  peon,  who  was  a  Mussulman,  went  to  serve 
a  process  in  a  remote  Hindu  village.     There  the  na- 
tives detected  him  about  to  slay  for  his  supper,  with 
his  official  sword,  a  brood  of  young  peacocks,  and  the 
defence   of  the   sacred   birds  resulted  in  a  free  fight. 
The  peon  denied  the  impeachment  with  pained  indig- 
nation :  the  fact  was,  he  saw  the  boys  of  the  village 
going  about  to  slay  the  pea-chicks,  and,  knowing  that 
Hindus  held  them  sacred,  was  putting  them  into  a  tree 
for  safety,  when  the  villagers  fell  upon  him.     Note  by 
the  local  native  authority — The   peon  is  known  to  be 
fond  of  roast  peacock,  and  is  it  likely  that  Hindu  boys 
would  kill  the  holy  chicks  ?     ^uestion^  What  is  to  be 
done  to  this  peon  ?     Peon  dismissed. 

2.  A  lady  whose  son  and  son's  estate  are  under  the 
court  of  wards — "  which  is  practically  me,"  explains 
the  District  Officer — asks  for   money  wherewith  to 
celebrate    the    consummation  of  the  boy's  marriage. 
Recommended   that  he  be  declared  of  age  and  put  in 
possession  of  his  property. 

3.  Ten  native  gentlemen  of  independent  means 
have  promised  to  subscribe  for  school  prizes  to  the 
total  amount  of  j£i,  2s.  8d.     When  it  comes  to  buy- 


The  District  Officer 

ing  the  prizes,  only  one  of  them  can  be  induced  to 
pay.     What  is  to  be  done  ?     Nothing. 

4.  A  woman  has  accused   a  man  of  looting  her 
house ;  it  turns  out  he  is  her  lover,  and  she  adopted 
this  device  to  conceal  the  fact  from  her  husband.    No 
charge. 

5.  An  old  woman  accused  a  man  of  stealing  two 
pennyworth  of  green  stuff  from  her  field ;  it  turns  out 
that,  having  a  grudge  against  him,  she  has  hit  on  this 
device   to  work   it   off,  whereas  in  fact  he  took  the 
stuff  from  his  own  field.     No  charge. 

6.  Two    Government    orderlies    have    had    their 
official   sashes   three   years   and   they   are  worn   out; 
authority  is  sought  to  buy  new  ones.     Granted. 

7.  A  headman  of  a  village  has  sold  his  land  ;  there- 
fore, according  to  law,  he  ought  not  to  remain  head- 
man, nor  to  collect  the  Government  revenue,  nor  to 
receive  his  five  per  cent,  commission  thereupon.     But 
the  times  are  hard,  and  he  has  a  brother,  a  fakir  in 
Boondi,  who  will  give  him  up  his  land  and  thus  re- 
qualify  him.     Allowed. 

8.  A  head-headman — one  who  is  set  over  a  group 
of  villages,  and  gets  one   per  cent,  on  the  revenue 
raised  therein,  which  is  paid  out  of  the  revenue  of  one 
particular    village — points    out    that,   owing  to  hard 
times,  the  revenue  of  thfe  village  has  been  suspended, 
and    there   is   nothing   to   pay  his   commission  with. 
May  it  be  paid  from  the  revenue  of  the  others  in  his 
group  ?     Yes. 

152 


The  District  Officer 

9.  A   native  magistrate  has  remanded  a  prisoner 
for  fifteen  days,  whereas  the  law  only  allows  a  remand 
for  fourteen.     But   on   the   fifteenth   day  a  superior 
magistrate,  who  has  power  to  try  him,  will  return,  and 
he  will  be  saved  the  trouble  and  delay  of  a  journey  to 
the  central  town.     Permitted. 

10.  There  is  a  leper  at  Chotapur ;  what  is  to  be 
done  with  him  ?     Look  up  the  latest  of  Government's 
innumerable  regulations  on  the  point  and  act  accord- 
ingly. 

n.  Some  prisoners  in  Jail  for  non-payment  of 
fines  allege  that  money  is  due  to  them  for  railway 
work  at  Hazirabad  wherewith  they  could  pay.  Write 
and  find  out. 

12.  On     the    salt-line — the    old    barrier    across 
country  where  the  salt-tax  used  to  be  collected,  the 
land  of  which  is  still  Government  property — a  tree 
has   fallen   down.     May  it  be  sold  by  auction  ?     It 
may. 

13.  A   sepoy  on   furlough   has   brought  Govern- 
ment  cartridges   to   his  village,  which  is  contrary  to 
the  Arms  Act.     Communicate  with  his  regiment. 

14.  A  recruiting  party  enlisted  two  men  in  the 
jungles  of  a  native  state  and  brought  them  into  the 
district,  where  they  were  found  to  be  possessed  each 
of  a  sword,  contrary  to  the  Arms  Act.     What  is  to  be 
done  with  (a)  the  swords,  (£)  the  recruits  ?     (a)  Con- 
fiscated, (b]  nothing. 

15.  Certain    villagers — having    presumably   quar- 

'53 


The  District  Officer 

relied  with  the  village  accountant — demand  an  audit 
of  the  books  of  the  village  funds.     Granted. 

1 6.  May  a  headman  attach  a  villager's  buffalo  in 
default  of  water-rate  ?     He  is  able  to  pay.     Yes. 

17.  May    a   headman    attach    standing    crops    in 
default  of  land-tax  ?     Yes — to  the  extent  of  the  taxes 
due. 

1 8.  Government  granted   10,000  rupees  for  wells 
in    this    district.     Hitherto,    times    being    hard    and 
demand  for  water  great,  it  has  only  been  granted  for 
cheap  kutcha  wells  (unbricked  holes),  which  silt  up  in 
a  couple   of  years.       Only    2000  rupees  have  been 
applied  for,  and  in  seven  weeks  the  unused  part  of  the 
grant  will  have  lapsed.     May  it  be  proclaimed  that 
applications  for  pukka  (bricked)  wells  will  be  received  ? 
Yes. 

19.  Saltpetre  licence  requested.     Saltpetre  is  won 
by  washing  the  earth  that  bears  it  and  then  evaporat- 
ing  in   the   sun ;    as  salt  is   found  with  it,  and   salt 
is    a    strict    Government   monopoly   in   India,   Gov- 
ernment   controls   the   saltpetre   industry  to   the   ex- 
tent of  charging  two  rupees  for  a  licence.     Licence 
granted. 

20.  Question  of  liquor  licence.     Liquor  can  only 
be    obtained    from    Government   distilleries,   and   the 
price  of  licences  acts  as  a  check  on  drinking.     This 
is  a  case  of  a  joint-concession,  of  which  one  partner 
has  quarrelled  with  the  other  and  wants  him  ejected. 
Refused. 

154 


The  District  Officer 

21.  May  a  registrar's  clerk,  who  is  the  son  of  a 
worthy  man  and  is  well  reported  on,  be  confirmed  in 
his  appointment  ?     Yes. 

22.  A  question  of  tenant-right  not  contemplated 
in  the  Act.     Decided  on  general  principles  of  com- 
mon-sense. 

23.  Gun  licence  applied  for.     Granted. 

24.  Gun    licence    applied    for    in    same    village. 
Refused. 

240.     Two    more    applicants,  who    had    intended 
applying  in  case  of  the  others'  success,  go  away. 

25.  An  old  gentleman  with  flowing  white  beard 
applies  for  the  right  of  sitting  on  a  chair  on  public 
occasions.     This   privilege  is  only  granted  by  Gov- 
ernment  as   an   honour,   and   he  produces  a  pile  of 
testimonials  from  former  Government  officers.     The 
sahib  asks  him,  "  District   Board  ke  member  bat  ?  " 
which  is  pure  Hindustani.     Recommended  that  it  be 
granted. 

26.  A  shivering,  threadbare,  skin-and-bone  grey- 
beard says  that  his  land  is  about  to  be  sold,  in  default 
of  payment  of  debt,  by  the  village  usurer.     Law  is 
law :  nothing  can  be  done  for  him. 

27.  Village     messenger,    whose     salary    is     i6s. 
a-year,  complains   that  his  pay  is   los.  8d.  in  arrear. 
Advised  to  get  work  elsewhere,  of  which   there   is 
plenty. 

28.  Village  leather-worker,  same  salary,  95.  4d.  in 
arrear.     Same  advice. 


The  District  Officer 

By  now  the  huddle  of  petitioners  outside  the  tent 
has  melted  away.  There  remains  (29)  a  pile  of  papers 
ten  inches  thick  to  be  signed.  "  Every  one  of  these 
means  the  ruination  of  some  poor  devil,"  says  the 
District  Officer;  they  are  notices  of  proceedings  to 
recover  debt.  "  But  I  can't  do  anything." 

And  that  will  give  you  an  idea  of  some  of  the 
things  on  which  a  District  Officer  had  to  keep  his 
eye.  Not  all,  for  he  has  a  light  time  just  now  :  big 
questions  like  organisation  of  town  councils,  or  water- 
works, or  new  canals,  or  famine-works,  have  let  up 
for  the  moment.  The  Presence  talks  as  familiarly  of 
abolishing  octrois  and  suppressing  town  councils  as 
you  do  of  engaging  a  housemaid.  Nor  yet  does  this 
give  you  an  idea  of  all  his  work ;  for  before  this  chap- 
ter began  he  had  ridden  four  hours  from  village  to 
village.  A  most  commendable  regulation  directs  him 
to  spend  so  many  weeks  a-year  in  camp,  journeying 
from  point  to  point  in  his  five  thousand  square  miles. 
When  the  day's  work  is  over  the  sahib  strolls  into 
the  sunset  with  a  gun,  as  he  has  done  every  evening 
for  years,  till  the  sight  of  black-buck  and  partridge 
has  grown  odious  to  him.  That  moment  an  army  of 
tent-pitchers  hauls  down  the  court,  takes  the  bench  to 
pieces,  and  the  whole  thing  is  off"  on  camels  and  carts 
to  the  next  stopping-place.  We  remain  in  the  living- 
tent  to  dine  and  sleep,  for  it  is  still  cold  at  night ;  but 
there  is  a  second  living-tent  already  awaiting  us  at  the 
next  halting-place.  We  tumble  out  in  the  darkling 
156 


The  District  Officer 

twilight  and  start  off  through  the  country.  At  every 
cross-road  there  await  the  Presence  salaaming  villagers 
and  more  rule  to  be  exercised. 

Here — dismounting  by  the  wayside  before  a  semi- 
circle of  dark  faces  muffled  in  shawls  against  the 
bitter  air  of  sunrise — he  inspects  the  village  registers, 
there  checks  the  cattle-census  returns,  there  refutes 
complaints  of  destitution  by  pointing  to  stacks  of  last 
year's  fodder — which  proves  by  one  example  the 
wisdom  of  going  into  camp — and  at  the  next  turning 
goes  over  the  new  village  meeting-house.  I  saw  that 
house — a  huge  double-towered  building,  higher  than 
that  of  the  next  village,  they  tell  you  eagerly — faced 
with  white  plaster  and  adorned  with  wondrous  frescoes 
of  men  and  beasts  and  crinolined  gods  spearing  dark- 
blue  devils.  On  the  roof  above  are  revealed  more 
esoteric  studies, — a  gentleman  removing  a  lady's  veil, 
and  a  white  man  drinking — O  shame  ! — out  of  a 
bottle.  There  the  men  meet  in  the  hot-weather  even- 
ings to  smoke  on  the  roof  j  here  they  put  up  the  vil- 
lage guests  at  the  expense  of  the  village  fund.  At 
one  place,  by  a  rare  exercise  of  self-help,  they  are 
using  the  village  fund  to  pay  the  destitute  to  dig  out 
the  village  tank.  The  same  fund  is  used  for  judicious 
bribes  to  small  officials  when  the  village  has  a  law- 
case. 

Through  all  this  primitive  hospitality,  primitive 
corruption,  primitive  joy  and  sorrow,  moves  the 
Father  and  Mother  of  District,  granting,  refusing, 


The  District  Officer 

punishing,  fostering.  Respected,  feared,  trusted,  to 
his  800,000  he  is  Omnipotence.  I  should  have  men- 
tioned that  he  is  thirty  years  old,  and  has  been  at  this 
kind  of  work  for  six  years. 


158 


XVII 
JUSTICE 

WE  have  given  India  justice — every  authority 
agrees  on  that  point ;  and,  whatever  else  we  may  have 
done  or  left  undone,  this  alone,  we  tell  ourselves,  is 
enough  to  justify  our  rule. 

It  is  quite  true,  only  it  requires  a  little  qualification. 
Most  things  in  India,  when  examined,  assume  the 
features  of  a  huge  jest,  and  justice  is  like  the  others. 
We  have  offered  India  justice,  only  India  will  not 
have  it.  India  prefers  injustice.  We  have  offered 
honest  administration  j  India  prefers  dishonest.  So 
that  administration  to-day  means  the  light  of  a  few 
honest  Europeans  shining  in  a  naughty  native  world. 
Justice,  when  you  come  to  see  it  in  action,  means  the 
guess  work  of  shrewd  European  magistrates  steering 
through  billowy  seas  of  perjury. 

From  many  cases  in  a  district  court  let  us  take  one 
or  two.  Din  Mohammed  and  Abdul  Kerim  are 
charged,  the  one  with  stealing  a  down-calving  buffalo, 
and  the  other  with  killing  and  skinning  the  same,  well 
knowing  it  to  have  been  stolen.  The  evidence  against 
them  has  been  heard  already  ;  to-day  is  for  their  de- 
fence. They  crouch,  salaaming,  into  the  tent, 
shackled  together  by  the  wrists,  with  the  other  end 


Justice 

of  the  chain  in  the  hand  of  a  blue-tunicked,  khaki- 
breeched  policeman.  He  is  about  half  the  size  of 
the  prisoners — two  splendid  fellows  of  six  feet  two 
or  thereabout.  Din  Mohammed's  demeanour  is  de- 
fiant :  he  has  been  here  three  times  before.  His  blue- 
black  moustache  and  beard  bristle  fiercely  ;  his  shin- 
ing eyeballs  are  a  splash  in  saucers  of  dazzling  white. 
Abdul  Kerim,  inexperienced,  thinks  that  a  melting 
mood  may  better  serve  his  turn :  his  crimson-turbaned 
head  droops  sideways  like  a  peony  in  a  shower,  and 
his  eyes  are  turned  plaintively  upwards. 

There  are  three  witnesses  for  the  defence.  Each 
stands  over  six  feet,  each  has  a  beard  and  moustache 
like  horsehair  and  eyes  like  onyx;  they  might  all  of 
them  be  blood  relations  to  Din  Mohammed — which 
is  exactly  what  they  are.  They  enter  and  stand  with 
clasped  hands  and  eyes  directed  unswervingly  towards 
the  top  left-hand  corner  of  the  tent.  Their  story  is 
simple  and  consistent.  Din  Mohammed  bought  the 
buffalo  in  their  presence  for  seventeen  rupees,  and 
they  solemnly  swear  that  this  is  the  truth.  Every 
now  and  then  one  of  the  prisoners,  standing  also  with 
folded  hands  and  rubbing  their  bare  toes  together, 
throws  in  a  word  of  encouragement  or  corroborative 
detail.  Cross-examination  brings  out  no  discrepancy 
in  their  story  :  time,  place,  figures,  names,  tally  ex- 
actly. And  the  last  of  them  winds  up  :  "  O  Presence, 
I  have  kept  the  Fast  for  forty  years  and  never  told  a 
lie." 

160 


Justice 

A  judge  at  home  would  have  no  more  to  say  :  ob- 
viously not  guilty.  In  India,  unluckily,  there  are  one 
or  two  further  points  to  be  considered.  As,  first,  that 
Din  Mohammed  is  a  landless  man,  and  has  probably 
never  eaten  meat  in  his  life — much  less  killed  a  down- 
calving  buffalo,  which  in  a  month  or  so  would  be 
giving  twenty  quarts  of  milk  a-day.  Second,  that  a 
down-calving  buffalo  costs  at  least  forty  rupees,  and 
up  to  three  hundred — not  seventeen.  And,  third, 
that  Din  Mohammed  has  been  convicted  of  this  same 
offence  three  times  already ;  and  that  on  each  of  these 
occasions  exactly  the  same  witnesses  appeared  on  his 
behalf,  including  the  Washington  who  never  told  a 
lie,  and  swore  to  exactly  the  same  story. 

"  Bring  in  the  prisoners."  As  they  rattle  in,  the 
magistrate  looks  up  :  "  Din  Mohammed,  seven  years ; 
Abdul  Kerim,  six  months."  Out  they  go.  A  dis- 
trict magistrate  has  no  time  to  address  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  and  dilate  on  the  enormity  of  his  offence. 

That  was  a  very  simple  case,  and  interesting  only 
as  illustrating  the  native  idea  of  evidence.  But  some 
are  brain-cracking  perplexities.  For  example,  a  mag- 
nificently powerful  Sikh  is  next  brought  in,  his  clothes 
blood-spotted,  his  jaw  broken,  and  his  mouth  hid- 
eously on  one  side.  As  he  enters  he  artistically 
drops  off  his  turban,  disclosing  a  big  wound  on  his 
head,  and  bursts  into  lung-tearing  sobs.  When  he  is 
quieted,  an  equally  superb  Sikh,  grey-bearded  and 
patriarchal,  steps  in  to  testify  against  him.  "  Rushed 
161 


Justice 

up  with  a  sword,"  he  begins.  "  When  ?  "  "  The 
fifth  of  January."  "  Where  ?  "  "  In  front  of  my 
house."  "  Who  rushed  up  with  a  sword  ?  "  "  Jagta 
did."  It  is  a  further  amiable  peculiarity  of  the  Indian 
witness  that  he  begins  his  evidence  in  the  middle,  and 
all  pronouns  and  adverbs  and  similar  embellishments 
have  to  be  dragged  out  of  him  by  a  corkscrew  of  cross- 
examinations. 

The  case  appears  to  be  this.  All  the  witnesses 
agree  that  the  prisoner  rushed  up  with  a  sword  and 
assaulted  the  old  man,  that  the  old  man's  son  rushed 
between  and  got  a  cut  in  the  thigh,  the  which  he  dis- 
plays with  triumph.  Further,  that  the  son  then  hit 
prisoner  on  the  hand  with  a  bamboo  and  got  the  sword 
from  him — the  sword  lies  on  the  tent  floor,  alive  to 
testify  the  fact — and  that  the  prisoner  was  thereupon 
given  into  custody.  The  flaw  in  their  evidence  is 
that,  whereas  it  is  obvious  that  the  prisoner  thereafter 
got  a  most  tremendous  thrashing,  and  was  indeed  half 
killed,  every  one  of  the  witnesses  denies  with  an  oath 
that  anything  of  the  kind  happened.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  prisoner  cannot  account  for  the  illegal 
possession  of  the  sword,  which  is  evidently  a  cast 
police  sabre  :  he  says  it  is  not  his,  and  that  he  never 
saw  it  before.  And  the  civil  surgeon — native — who 
examined  the  son's  wound,  reports  that  it  could  not 
have  been  inflicted  by  Jagta,  but  was  probably  manu- 
factured by  the  son  himself. 

Now,  five  years  ago,  Jagta  was  concerned  in  abduct- 
162 


Justice 

ing  the  daughter  of  the  old  man.  He  and  another 
were  condemned,  but  having  appealed  before  a  native 
judge  and  paid  him  1500  rupees,  were  acquitted. 
Since  then  Jagta  has  brought  a  criminal  charge  against 
the  old  man  and  his  son,  supported  by  abundant  evi- 
dence, which  was  adjudged  false  and  malicious,  and 
for  bringing  which  he  was  fined.  The  two  parties 
will  go  on  with  their  accusations  and  counter-accusa- 
tions for  a  generation. 

There  are,  therefore,  two  hypotheses.  First,  the 
old  man's  party  may  have  fallen  on  Jagta  and  beaten 
him;  then,  to  cover  themselves,  rushed  off  to  the 
police,  accused  him  of  murderous  assault,  and  bribed 
them  to  supply  a  cast  sword  to  support  the  allega- 
tion. Second,  Jagta  may  have  actually  made  the  at- 
tack, and  got  the  unacknowledged  thrashing  in  return  ; 
and  then  his  friends  may  have  bribed  the  assistant 
surgeon  to  say  that  the  son's  wound  was  self-in- 
flicted. Both  hypotheses  are  in  the  nature  of  native 
things  probable  ;  only  both  cannot  be  true — and  how 
in  the  world  is  the  wretched  magistrate  to  decide  be- 
tween them  ? 

And  now  you  understand  the  nature  of  Indian  jus- 
tice. The  case  is  dirt-common,  and  quite  typical. 
Of  course  the  wretched  magistrate  has  to  take  full 
notes  of  all  the  evidence,  of  which  half  must  be,  and 
all  may  be,  false.  Indian  law  allows  great  freedom  of 
appeal — with  the  possible  result  that  when,  after  years 
of  trouble,  the  magistrate  has  caught  the  master  cat- 
163 


Justice 

tie-lifter  of  his  district,  an  inexperienced  appellate 
judge  sets  him  free  again  because  the  evidence  appears 
equal  on  each  side.  In  one  case  out  of  ten  he  may 
be  right ;  but  who  is  to  blame  him  when  he  is  wrong  ? 
To  give  India  justice  would  demand  second-sight. 
India  loves  litigation  :  the  court  is  the  ryot's  parish 
council — as  good  as  a  circus.  It  would  probably  be 
wrong  to  say  that  the  native  does  not  appreciate  hon- 
esty in  his  judges  ;  but  he  appreciates  it  mainly  with 
the  sporting  notion  that  it  is  a  good  thing  to  be  sure 
that  the  litigant  who  cheats  best  will  win.  Every  day 
cases  come  into  court  in  which  every  word  of  the 
evidence  is  carefully,  lovingly  fabricated  beforehand. 
Prosecution  and  defence  are  alike  masterly  and  elab- 
orate perjuries,  for  the  native — especially  in  cases 
where,  as  usual,  both  sides  are  to  blame — will  never 
be  content  without  improving  on  the  truth.  It  is  the 
morality  of  the  country,  and  you  live  longer  if  you 
laugh  at  it  than  if  you  weep ;  yet  sometimes  you  get 
a  case  that  is  truly  devilish.  The  false  witness  be- 
gins before  the  crime  is  even  committed.  In  the  dis- 
tricts about  Peshawar  especially,  where  murder  is  the 
equivalent  of  writing  to  the  newspapers  with  us,  men 
will  go  to  the  police,  at  intervals,  for  months,  to  point 
out  that  So-and-so  hates  Such-an-one,  has  threatened 
to  kill  him,  is  believed  to  be  lying  in  wait  for  him. 
Sure  enough,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  Such-an-one  is 
found  dead  with  a  knife  through  his  back,  and  So- 
and-so  is  arrested.  But  the  real  murderers  were  the 
164 


Justice 

men  who  had  warned  the  police  ;  so  that  magistrates 
will  hardly  ever  dare  to  convict  a  man  lest  he  be  an 
innocent  victim,  and  murders  have  gone  up  about 
Peshawar  to  four  hundred  or  so  a-year. 

Not  a  single  native  is  to  be  trusted.  Many  no 
doubt  are  impeccable ;  but  with  instances  of  dishon- 
esty among  the  ablest  and  longest  unsuspected,  it  is 
next  to  impossible  to  be  sure  of  anybody.  The  truth 
is,  that  native  opinion  does  not  utterly  condemn  cor- 
ruption. The  jail  authorities  encourage  prisoners  to 
write  petitions  that  they  may  get  backsheesh  from  the 
dealers  who  provide  the  Government  paper.  The 
police  are  notoriously  corrupt,  the  officials  are  corrupt, 
the  officers  of  the  court  are  corrupt,  the  very  native 
magistrates  and  judges  are  corrupt.  A  case  is  ad- 
journed and  adjourned  and  adjourned,  every  time  on  a 
plausible  pretext,  for  months  ;  meanwhile  the  judge's 
jackals  are  out  in  the  villages  hinting  to  the  suitor 
that  if  he  will  but  agree  to  this  or  that  compromise, 
the  cause  shall  be  heard  and  settled  at  once.  As  a 
rule,  they  take  bribes  from  each  side,  and  then  decide 
the  case  on  its  merits.  The  man  of  really  scrupulous 
honesty  takes  the  same  present  from  each  side,  and 
then — just  like  our  own  Lord  Bacon — returns  the 
money  to  the  loser. 

Only  why,  you  ask,  is  this  allowed  to  go  on  ?  Be- 
cause, though  everybody  suspects,  and  hundreds  of 
natives  know,  you  cannot  get  a  man  to  come  forward 
and  say,  "  I  paid  this  magistrate  such  a  sum,"  and 
165 


Justice 

prove  it.  Of  course  not,  for  the  man  who  paid  is 
usually  the  man  who  profits.  It  is  one  of  the  super- 
lative jests  of  India  to  see  a  superior  tell  the  equiva- 
lent of  a  county  court  judge  he  strongly  suspects  him 
of  taking  bribes,  and  the  learned  gentleman  sobbing 
on  the  floor  and  challenging  anybody  that  has  bribed 
him  to  come  forward  and  say  so,  yet  in  no  way  re- 
senting the  charge.  But  only  last  year  one  of  the 
ablest  native  judges  in  the  Punjab  was  found  guilty  of 
venality  in  its  very  grossest  form.  He  had  taken 
1500  rupees  from  Jagta  and  his  friend ;  from  the 
brother  of  a  maharajah  he  had  had  as  much  as  60,000 
in  one  case.  His  cleverness  was  such  that  every  one 
of  his  decisions  looked  plausible.  His  wealth,  of 
course,  was  prodigious  ;  and,  when  the  crash  came,  he 
was  off  to  Pondicherry  :  much  of  his  money  was 
invested  in  native  States,  and  bags  of  rupees  or  bars 
of  gold  were  found  hidden  in  the  homes  of  profes- 
sional thieves. 

"  Our  pay,"  said  a  Government  official — retired — 
"  is  but  the  chutni  which  we  eat  with  our  meat." 


1 66 


XVIII 
PROVIDENCE  AND  THE  PARLOUR  GAME 

AMONG  the  duties  of  a  District  Officer,  in  his  gen- 
eral capacity  of  Father  and  Mother  of  the  People, 
falls  the  inspection  of  anything  in  the  nature  of  a 
public  institution  that  he  may  happen  to  come  across. 
In  two  days  I  had  the  honour  of  assisting  at  inspec- 
tions of  a  jail,  a  dispensary,  a  school,  a  public  garden, 
a  treasury,  a  police-station,  a  dak  bungalow,  the  reg- 
isters of  half-a-dozen  villages,  two  Arab  stallions,  and 
a  stud  donkey. 

When  you  meet  the  Government  of  India  in  camp 
it  seems  the  ideal  of  a  single  system  adapted  to  a 
simple  country.  It  appears  to  reside,  not  in  ink  and 
paper,  but  in  men.  The  man  knows  his  business  and 
knows  his  own  mind,  and  Government  appears  to 
work  in  a  string  of  six-word  orders  delivered  at  the 
rate  of  a  couple  of  dozen  an  hour.  The  Briton  un- 
derstands and  commands  ;  the  native  understands  and 
performs ;  work  is  done  quickly  and  cheaply,  and 
there  is  a  responsible  man  to  see  that  it  is  done. 

Unfortunately  that  is  only  half  the  fact.  If  that 
were  all,  India — provided  only  that  its  local  rulers 
were  both  trustworthy  and  trusted — would  be  the 
167 


Providence  and  the  Parlour  Game 

best-governed  country  in  the  world.  But  there  is  an- 
other side.  The  rulers,  for  the  most  part  eminently 
trustworthy,  are  only  half-trusted.  PYom  that  comes 
supervision,  regulations,  correspondence,  clerks  by  the 
thousand,  writing  by  the  ream,  red-tape  by  the  league. 
The  Government  of  India,  in  the  one  aspect  the 
ideal  organisation  for  work,  becomes  in  the  other  the 
inevitable  and  gigantic  joke — a  cobweb  of  rules  and 
checks  and  references,  compared  with  which  eight- 
pack  Patience  is  simplicity  and  the  House  that  Jack 
built  terseness. 

As  soon  as  you  leave  the  tent  and  come  under  a 
Government  roof  it  is  this  side  of  the  matter  that  be- 
gins to  unroll  itself  before  you.  At  the  police-station 
alone  ten  books  are  brought  out  for  inspection. 
Every  single  thing  that  the  police  does  is  carefully 
written  down,  even  to  the  cleaning  of  their  Sniders. 
Every  pill  that  goes  out  of  the  dispensary  is  similarly 
made  a  note  of,  together  with  the  recipient's  name  and 
religion.  At  the  school  every  attendance  of  every 
scholar  is  kept,  together  with  records  of  all  passes  and 
failures  and  long  reports  from  inspectors.  Thus  with 
everything. 

So  far,  of  course,  all  is  natural  and  indeed  neces- 
sary. You  would  find  almost  as  much  paper  covered 
in  similar  institutions  at  home.  In  India,  further- 
more, the  details  of  administration  must  needs  be 
largely  in  native  hands,  and  of  responsibility  the  or- 
dinary native  official  is  neither  desirous  nor  worthy. 
1 68 


Providence  and  the  Parlour  Game 

Therefore  he  writes  down  questions  in  black  and 
white,  and  his  European  superior  gives  him  black  and 
white  answers. 

It  is  not  only  officials  who  fly  to  writing  as  a 
friendly  shelter  against  responsibility.  In  all  India 
you  will  hardly  find  a  native  who  will  take  verbal  in- 
structions. You  send  a  peon  with  a  letter  :  he  will 
take  no  notice  when  you  tell  him  where  to  go,  but 
instead  will  waylay  every  European  he  sees  in  the 
street  and  hold  out  the  letter  to  him,  in  hopes  that  the 
talismanic  writing  will  find  its  destination  for  itself. 
When  I  first  started  forth  into  India  I  came  on  a  na- 
tive doctor,  or  semi-doctor,  on  plague  duty.  His  in- 
structions were  to  keep  passengers  from  Bombay  in  a 
segregation  camp.  I  assured  him,  and  he  must  have 
known,  that  plague  regulations  did  not  apply  to  Euro- 
peans ;  he  replied  that  if  I  would  kindly  wait  twenty- 
four  hours  on  the  ground  at  nowhere-in-particular  he 
would  telegraph  to  his  official  superior  for  instructions. 
When  I  eventually  lost  patience,  and  said  I  was  going 
on,  instructions  or  not,  he  asked  if,  at  least,  he  might 
telegraph  on  the  number  of  my  ticket.  I  gave  it 
him  :  at  the  sight  of  a  regulation  number  he  quite 
revived,  and  of  course  nobody  heard  any  more  of  it. 
Similarly  the  guard  of  a  railway  train  writes  down  the 
number  of  your  ticket  in  his  notebook — why,  Heaven 
knows.  Briefly,  the  whole  ambition  of  the  native  is 
to  leave  off  being  a  man  and  to  become  a  sort  of 
pneumatic  tube;  and  the  sole  qualification  for  the 
169 


Providence  and  the  Parlour  Game 

native  public  service  is  to  be  able  to  read  and  write 
and  to  know  the  way  to  the  post-office. 

But,  to  go  back  to  Government,  the  records  of  the 
police-station  and  the  dispensary  are  meagre  compared 
with  those  of  the  patwari^  or  village  accountant.  This 
gentleman  keeps  a  number  of  books,  which  together 
form  the  minutest  record  of  the  economic  history  of 
the  village.  He  has  a  linen  map — he  lugs  it  out  of 
his  pocket  like  a  very  dirty  handkerchief — which 
shows  the  boundaries,  not  only  of  the  village  lands, 
but  of  every  field.  In  his  records  he  puts  down  the 
area  of  land  sown  with  each  crop  and  the  amount 
harvested.  In  another  book  he  puts  down  the  rent 
of  each  field  and  the  land-tax,  while  any  changes  of 
ownership  or  of  occupancy  are  likewise  entered. 
Everything  that  the  wit  of  man  could  hit  upon  as  re- 
cordable is  recorded.  So  long  as  the  patwari  does  his 
duty — which  he  usually  does,  unless  he  is  paid  to  do 
otherwise — Government  has  matter  for  an  economic 
history  of  rural  India  beside  which  the  collected 
works  of  Mr.  Charles  Booth  would  be  a  superficial 
pamphlet. 

To  the  British  mind  such  a  system  is  suspiciously 
reminiscent  of  the  given  moment  at  which  every 
child  in  France  is  saying  its  multiplication  table ;  and 
you  will  ask,  What  is  the  use  of  it  all  ?  Much.  For 
the  Government  of  India — you  will  hardly  guess  it 
from  the  Wedderburns  of  the  age,  but  it  is  most  true 
— is  the  tenderest-conscienced  ruler  in  the  world. 
170 


Providence  and  the  Parlour  Game 

Every  thirty  years  it  assesses  the  land  revenue,  which 
is  its  principal  source  of  income,  and  in  this  work  the 
village  registers  are  invaluable.  They  show,  as  nearly 
as  experience  can  forecast  the  future,  what  the  land 
can  pay,  and  it  is  assessed  accordingly.  The  theory 
in  India  has  always  been  that  the  land  is  the  State's, 
and  that  the  State  is  entitled  to  the  whole  of  the  prod- 
uce after  the  cultivator  has  half-filled  his  belly  from 
it.  In  British  theory  this  right  has  relaxed.  In 
Bengal  and  parts  of  the  North-West  Provinces  it  has 
surrendered  its  rights  to  zemindars  by  the  Permanent 
Settlement,  which  cheats  it  out  of  its  fair  share  in  the 
prosperity  of  the  country.  Elsewhere  the  settlement 
is  in  the  nature  of  a  thirty-years'  lease  of  the  land, 
granted  either  to  a  village  collectively,  as  landlord,  or 
directly  to  the  cultivator;  and  in  this  case  it  is  con- 
sidered reasonable  to  take  one-half  of  the  net  profit. 
But  in  practice  the  assessment  is  generally  much 
lower.  Sometimes  blunders  are  made,  and  it  is  much 
higher.  There  is  a  story  of  a  landowner  who  be- 
queathed all  his  land  to  the  officer  who  had  last  as- 
sessed it — remarking  that,  as  the  sahib  had  taken  all 
the  produce,  he  might  as  well  have  the  land  itself. 
But  in  the  main  the  settlements  are  equitable,  and  for 
that  thanks  are  largely  due  to  the  patwari's  register. 

Only  Government  is  not  content  with  the  register. 

The    settlement    officer    has    also   to  furnish  a  most 

elaborate  report,  beginning  with  the  district's  history 

from  the  earliest  times,  telling  you  not  merely  what 

171 


Providence  and  the  Parlour  Game 

grows  there  and  how  much  it  fetches,  but  also  the 
race  of  the  people  and  their  local  superstitions,  a 
great  part  of  their  language,  and  what  they  look  like, 
and  who  has  the  right  of  sitting  on  a  chair,  and 
whether  the  post-office  is  also  a  money-order  office, 
and  how  many  people  died  of  ruptured  spleen,  and 
what  the  irrigation  system  was  in  the  reign  of  Au- 
rungzebe,  and  before  there  was  any  irrigation  system 
at  all  what  there  was  where  the  irrigation  system  now 
is,  and  the  deuce  knows  what  besides. 

If  Government  were  content  with  that — it  is  only 
once  in  thirty  years.  But  the  curiosity  of  Govern- 
ment is  insatiable  and  feverish.  Every  year  the  Dis- 
trict Officer  has  to  make  reports  on  every  important 
branch  of  his  administration — huge  piles  of  foolscap 
an  inch  thick.  If  Government  were  only  content 
with  that — but  there  are  a  million  subjects  on  which 
special  reports  have  to  be  made.  If  a  wretched  babu 
clerk  to  a  medical  officer  embezzles  Government  cash, 
it  is  the  District  Officer  who  really  suffers ;  for  he  has 
to  write  a  special  report — Sub-head  No.  123,456,789 
— on  defalcations  of  Government  servants.  If  a 
member  of  Parliament  asks  a  question  in  the  House — 
purely  to  waste  time,  as  like  as  not,  or  to  get  his 
name  into  the  "Times" — the  Secretary  of  State  asks 
the  Viceroy  for  the  answer,  and  he  asks  the  Lieuten- 
ant-Governor,  and  he  asks  the  Commissioner,  and  he 
asks  the  District  Officer,  and  he  collects  information 
from  his  native  subordinates.  He  combines  their  an- 
172 


Providence  and  the  Parlour  Game 

swers  into  a  report,  and  the  Commissioner  combines 
the  reports  of  the  District  Officers,  and  the  Lieuten- 
ant-Governor  combines  the  reports  of  the  Commis- 
sioners, and  the  Viceroy  combines  the  reports  of  the 
Lieutenant-Governors,  and  sends  the  result  home  to 
Whitehall,  which  it  reaches  long  after  the  man  who 
started  the  inquiry  has  forgotten  that  he  ever  made  it. 
And  on  the  top  of  that  some  toy  ruler  in  the 
Secretariat  at  Calcutta  or  Allahabad,  or  somewhere  a 
thousand  miles  away,  will  have  the  idea  to  get  a  series 
of  monographs  on  the  home  arts  and  industries  of  the 
people,  or  the  natural  history  of  the  bullock,  or  the 
extent  to  which  natives  wear  shoes.  So  the  subject  is 
served  out  to  various  wretched  civil  servants  like  an 
essay  at  school,  and  each  writes  a  book  about  it  which 
nobody  ever  reads. 

The  people  who  mostly  instigate  this  sort  of  thing 
are  always  talking  to  you  about  "the  art  of  govern- 
ment"  and  "the  way  to  rule  men."  It  is  not  ruling 
men ;  it  is  a  parlour  game.  Doubtless  the  informa- 
tion acquired  is  very  interesting ;  and  if  India  were 
rich  and  had  a  superabundance  of  British  officers  with 
nothing  better  to  do,  it  would  be  a  most  blameless 
and  intelligent  way  of  working  off  superfluous  cash 
and  the  energy  of  the  superfluous  staff.  But  India 
is  poor,  and  it  has  one  trustworthy  administrator  to 
every  three  hundred  thousand  of  its  people.  So  that 
in  the  cities  money  goes  for  hundreds  of  babus  to 
copy  and  register  things  that  do  not  matter,  to  for- 


Providence  and  the  Parlour  Game 

ward  them  and  acknowledge  receipt  of  same.  And  in 
the  villages  the  Father  and  Mother,  who  should  be  go- 
ing in  and  out  among  his  officials  and  his  people,  be- 
comes a  parent  who  writes  treatises  on  education  while 
the  children  play  in  the  gutter.  The  Presence  might 
better  be  called  the  Absence.  He  must  cease  playing 
Providence  to  play  the  Parlour  Game. 


174 


XIX 

THE  FOREST  OFFICER 

THE  elephant  knows.  When  the  mahout  wants  to 
get  on  to  her  neck,  she  takes  him  on  her  trunk  and 
bends  it  till  he  can  walk  up  her  forehead.  When 
you  want  to  get  on  to  her  back,  she  lets  down  a 
hind-foot  to  make  one  step,  and  curls  up  her  tail  to 
make  another.  She  knows  that  a  branch  she  can 
walk  under  will  sweep  you  off  her  back;  therefore 
she  goes  round,  or,  if  that  is  not  possible,  pushes 
down  the  tree  with  her  trunk  as  gently  as  you  put 
down  a  teacup.  At  every  ford  she  tries  the  bottom, 
at  every  bridge  she  tries  the  planks :  she  knows  bet- 
ter than  you  do  how  much  she  weighs  and  what  will 
bear  her. 

Jerk,  jerk,  jerk — she  seesaws  you  at  every  step,  for 
you  are  sitting  on  a  blanket  just  atop  of  her  shoulder. 
Now  and  again  the  mahout  addresses  her  in  a  lan- 
guage, handed  down  from  father  to  children,  that  only 
mahouts  and  elephants  understand,  or  smites  her  over 
the  head  with  the  heavy,  iron-hooked  ankus.  It  falls 
with  a  dull  thud  on  her  hairy  forehead ;  it  would  crack 
your  skull  like  an  eggshell,  but  it  hurts  the  elephant 
as  a  dead  leaf  would  hurt  you.  Behind  her  ear  you 


The  Forest  Officer 

see  a  crevasse  of  raw  flesh  in  the  armour-plating  of 
hide :  that  wound  is  kept  open,  and  through  it  only 
can  she  be  made  to  feel.  She  just  tramples  on,  now 
tilted  almost  on  to  her  head,  now  all  but  standing  on 
her  tail ;  over  the  shallow  rivers,  along  the  rutted 
cart-tracks,  till  the  sun  begins  to  bake  and  the  line  of 
hills  in  front  changes  from  a  wash  of  blue  to  a  clear- 
cut  saw-edge  of  shaded  greens  and  browns. 

Past  a  village  of  leaning  mud,  past  a  string  of 
squeaking  carts — the  elephant  knows  the  bullocks  will 
shy,  and  tries  to  skirt  round  them :  they  shy  none  the 
less,  and  the  cart  twists  on  the  yoke-pole  and  turns 
clean  turtle.  The  driver  is  not  in  the  least  disturbed  : 
time  is  plenty  in  India — jerk,  jerk,  on  we  go.  Now 
we  begin  to  climb  the  lowest  slopes — the  toes  of  the 
Himalaya,  whose  waists  are  girdled  with  clouds  and 
whose  heads  look  over  the  floor  of  heaven.  We  tilt 
up  and  down  narrow  paths,  brush  past  mats  of  branch 
and  thorn  and  creeper :  now  we  are  in  the  very  forest, 
the  native  immemorial  jungle.  From  the  elephant 
you  look  over  a  sea  of  tossing  greens  curling  into  a 
yellow  foam  of  young  leaves,  or  flecked  with  eddies 
of  rusty  brown  where  the  frost  has  bitten.  Nearer 
are  pavilions  and  cloisters  roofed  with  slabs  of  blue- 
blushing  creeper-leaf.  Across  the  alleys  dart  sun- 
birds,  gold-green  dusted  with  bronze,  or  magpies 
flashing  yellow-plush  bodies  under  black-and-white 
wings,  or  tiny  blue-satin  kingfishers  reflected  in  dia- 
mond cascades.  Then  a  creaking  wooden  screech,  a 
176 


The  Forest  Officer 

crackling  in  the  underwood,  and  overhead,  with  his 
crested  prow,  his  sea-purple  side,  his  long  wake  of 
plumes,  floats  by  in  full  sail  the  royal  peacock.  In 
the  intervals  the  jungle  is  dead  silent. 

Another  rise,  another  elbow  of  clifF,  and  the  ele- 
phant, plucking  a  tuft  of  grass  to  shampoo  herself 
with,  is  kneeling  down  by  a  little  plastered  bungalow 
on  a  dry  lawn.  It  is  the  forest  lodge.  Here,  looking 
out  and  down  to  the  blue  steak  of  the  river  as  it 
scrambles  out  of  the  hills  and  trundles  the  rafts  of 
deodar-sleepers  down  to  the  railway,  looking  across 
to  the  scarred  sides  of  the  hills  beyond,  to  the  floor  of 
plain  on  his  right  and  the  giant's  stairway  of  mountain 
on  his  left,  lives  the  forest  officer. 

He  stands  nearer  six  feet  six  than  six  feet,  and  rides 
nearer  fifteen  stone  than  fourteen  ;  therefore,  drawing 
the  pay  of  a  forest  officer,  he  usually  walks.  In  the 
corner  of  his  bare-plastered  living-room  stand  a  rifle 
and  gun,  which  he  takes  out  when  he  walks,  in  order 
to  persuade  himself  that  he  has  his  recreations.  At 
his  feet  snores  a  retriever-spaniel,  which  he  keeps  that 
he  may  not  forget  how  to  talk  English.  His  food 
comes  out  of  tins,  except  the  jungle-fowl  and  hares 
he  shoots  and  the  unleavened  chapatties  his  servant 
bakes  instead  of  bread.  Religion  in  this  region  allows 
the  shooting  of  pea-fowl,  but  because  of  religion  he 
denies  himself  beef.  He  gets  up  two  hours  before 
dawn,  that  he  may  waste  no  daylight  in  beginning  his 
work  at  the  far  end  of  the  forest.  After  dinner  he  is 
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The  Forest  Officer 

too  tired  to  read,  though  he  loves  books,  and  his 
opinions  on  them  are  those  of  a  man  who  thinks  when 
we  are  talking.  As  it  is,  he  nods  over  the  rive-days- 
old  "  Pioneer  "  ;  he  cannot  keep  his  eyes  open  after 
half-past  eight.  Thus  he  lives  alone  from  month  to 
month  and  year  to  year.  His  wife  and  children  and 
friends  are  the  young  trees  in  the  forest.  Sometimes 
in  the  jungle  he  comes  across  another  white  man,  who 
stays  five  minutes  and  talks  English  over  a  peg. 

If  he  wants  to  save  his  soul  alive,  he  must  save  it, 
like  three-quarters  of  the  rest  of  them  in  India,  by 
work.  The  work  of  the  forest  officer  is  strange 
enough  to  the  ordinary  Briton  :  there  are  forests  of 
a  sort  at  home,  but  no  forestry  to  speak  of.  My 
friend  knows  nothing  except  forestry,  he  cheerfully 
alleges,  and  therefore  he  must  cling  to  his  present 
billet  through  solitude  and  fevers,  or  else  starve.  In 
France  and  Germany  they  have  State  forests — ten 
square  miles  to  an  officer  with  efficient  rangers  and 
guards,  where  the  Indian  officer  has  perhaps  a  thou- 
sand with  hopeless  natives.  Eleven  million  acres — 
over  a  third  of  the  area  of  England — are  the  domain 
immediately  under  the  Indian  Forest  Department,  and 
of  late  years  Government  has  begun  to  make  money 
out  of  them. 

The  forest  officer  must  save  his  soul  by  works,  but 

also  by  faith.     He   differs   from  the  other  slaves  of 

India  in  that  they  can  reap  the  fruit  of  their  labours ; 

he  never.     The  district  officer  sees  his  people  harvest 

178 


The  Forest  Officer 

their  crops  and  Government  garner  its  revenue ;  the 
engineer  watches  his  canal  make  fields  out  of  sand. 
Of  the  trees  the  forest  officer  plants,  the  first  will  not 
be  felled  till  he  has  left  the  service ;  before  the  last  is 
turned  into  revenue  his  very  tombstone  will  be  moss- 
grown.  He  plans  by  night  and  sweats  by  day  to 
create  what  he  will  never  see.  Of  all  India's  bonds- 
men she  asks  the  greatest  sacrifice  of  him ;  of  all  she 
asks  the  best  of  their  life,  but  of  him  she  asks  his 
very  individuality.  He  must  sink  himself  to  be  a 
mere  connecting-link,  a  hyphen  in  the  story  of  his 
wood,  taking  up  that  which  was  old  before  he  was 
born,  and  passing  it  on  to  be  still  young  when  he  is 
dead.  Twenty  rings  in  a  log — and  the  life's  work  of 
a  man  ! 

It  is  his  to  follow  the  working  plan.  A  forest,  you 
understand,  is  so  much  national  capital,  and,  like  other 
capital,  it  must  be  made  to  bear  interest.  If  you  cut 
down  all  your  timber,  your  capital  is  gone,  and  your 
children  will  want  for  sleepers  and  window-frames  and 
firewood — that  is  what  naughty  rajahs  do.  If  you 
fell  nothing,  you  are  wrapping  your  talent  up  in  a 
napkin.  The  working  plan  is  designed  to  draw  the 
annual  increment  from  the  forest  and  to  leave  the 
principal  untouched.  The  trees  in  a  particular  wood 
take,  we  will  say,  a  hundred  years  to  reach  maturity ; 
then,  if  the  wood  is  of  a  thousand  acres'  area,  you 
fell  ten  acres  each  year.  As  you  cut  down  you  sow 
again  j  so  that  at  the  end  of  each  year's  fellings  the 
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The  Forest  Officer 

forest  is  divided  into  a  hundred  ten-acre  compartments 
varying  in  age  from  nothing  to  ninety-nine. 

Simple  enough  so  far ;  but  so  far  the  forest  officer's 
work  is  only  a  bit  of  paper.  There  are  a  thousand 
complications.  Some  young  trees  will  not  grow  ex- 
cept in  the  shade  of  others,  which  shelter  them  from 
sun  or  frost  or  wind ;  then  you  cannot  simply  cut 
down  the  forest  in  strips.  It  may  be  that  part  of  the 
wood  is  on  a  slope,  and  to  clear  it  altogether  would 
untie  the  binding  roots  and  call  down  a  landslip.  In 
such  cases  you  must  have  the  trees  of  different  ages 
mixed.  Then,  again,  there  are  such  things  as  sapling 
forests,  which  grow  from  the  stools  of  felled  trees  and 
not  from  seed  j  these  will  be  cleared  at  regular  inter- 
vals, say,  of  twenty  years — a  less  impersonal  business 
for  the  forest  officer,  for  he  can  actually  see  his  forest 
grow  from  year  to  year. 

Whatever  the  plan,  there  is  only  one  course  for 
him.  Experts  argue  theories  of  planting  or  thinning : 
he  must  go  out  into  the  forest  and  look  at  the  trees. 
No  two  cases  for  planting,  for  thinning,  will  be  ex- 
actly alike,  because  no  two  trees  out  of  all  the  millions 
are :  he  must  go  out  and  judge.  So  out  we  will  go, 
under  the  beating  sunshine.  First  along  the  fire- 
lines,  where  the  ground  has  been  cleared  to  a  width 
that  flames  will  hardly  leap  over :  the  cutting  of  fire- 
lines  around  and  within  the  forest  is  the  first  pre- 
caution of  the  conservator.  In  this  forest  it  was  at 
one  time  neglected ;  hence  crooked  trees  which  have 
180 


The  Forest  Officer 

had  their  sap  frizzled  up  one  year  and  have  budded  in 
another  direction  the  next ;  now  they  will  never  make 
good  logs  if  they  grow  for  ages.  Then  we  turn  up  a 
nullah — a  mad  torrent  in  the  rains,  now  a  scrunching 
ladder  of  pebble  and  boulder.  Then  aside  into  the 
forest  towards  a  sweet  savour  of  wood-smoke :  here 
are  half-a-dozen  squat  hillmen  round  their  earth- 
banked  charcoal  furnaces.  They  asked  the  other  day 
for  new  axes,  and  the  officer  inquires,  in  their  Him- 
alaya dialect,  if  they  have  got  them  yet.  "  No,  O 
Presence,"  says  the  monkey -whiskered  headman. 
The  ranger  had  been  told  to  serve  them  out,  and  has 
not  done  it.  Then  off  through  the  long  grass  that 
brushes  your  ears,  breaking  through  tangles  of  bush, 
dodging  under  branches,  wriggling  over  meshes  of 
creeper;  a  distant  tapping  sharpens  into  the  chock- 
chock  of  axes,  then  comes  a  burst  of  sunlight,  and  we 
are  in  a  half-open  glade  where  coolies  are  felling  and 
cross-cutting. 

This  particular  work  was  reported  by  the  ranger  as 
finished  three  weeks  ago ;  it  is  still  going  on.  And 
there  you  fall  once  more  across  the  maddening,  be- 
numbing clog  of  all  work  in  India — the  native  sub- 
ordinate. In  the  law-court  it  is  his  dishonesty  that 
most  strikes  you :  here  it  is  his  indolent  incapacity. 
And,  indeed,  if  you  cannot  get  good  native  magistrates 
and  clerks,  how  shall  you  look  for  good  rangers  ?  The 
ranger  is  probably  a  bunnia's  son :  that  shopkeeper- 
usurer  sees  that  education  brings  a  livelihood,  and 
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The  Forest  Officer 

educates  his  son  for  the  public  service.  Such  as  are 
not  good  enough  for  desks  in  the  civil  service  go  to 
the  Forest  School  at  Dehra  Dun,  and  presently  are 
fledged  rangers.  For  centuries  the  rangers'  fathers 
have  been  sitting  on  the  counter  of  a  shop,  sticking 
their  fingers  into  a  pile  of  sugar  and  sucking  them  : 
what  should  the  ranger  do  in  a  forest  ?  He  hates  the 
place  and  everything  about  it.  Why  should  he  walk 
over  a  lot  of  beastly  stones,  through  a  lot  of  beastly 
prickles  ?  Then  in  the  day  it  is  hot  in  the  forest,  and 
in  the  morning  he  cannot  go  out  without  his  food. 
Why,  indeed,  should  he  be  asked  to  walk  at  all  ?  To 
walk  is  an  indignity  in  India. 

So  he  ambles  his  pony  along  the  fire-line  every  few 
days,  and  leaves  the  inside  of  the  forest  to  the  foresters 
and  the  guards  and  the  coolies  and  God.  And  when 
his  officer  asks  him  what  has  been  done,  he  draws  on 
his  voluble  imagination.  The  ranger  in  this  case  had 
ridden  within  twenty  yards  of  the  fellings  every  day — 
or  said  he  had — for  weeks ;  he  had  never  taken  the 
trouble  to  turn  in  and  see  how  the  work  was  really 
being  done. 

A  few  yards  further  the  beat  of  axes  suddenly 
ceased  behind  a  bush,  and  was  succeeded  by  the  buzz 
of  a  saw.  A  turbaned  head  appeared,  watching  our 
approach  through  the  boughs  ;  when  we  reached  the 
spot,  two  coolies  were  cross-cutting  a  log,  and  a 
forester  sprang  up  in  great  confusion,  bare-headed. 
The  meaning  of  that  little  comedy  was  obscure  to  me, 
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The  Forest  Officer 

but  plain  to  the  expert.  The  man  had  been  ordered 
to  make  his  coolies  use  the  saw  for  cross-cutting, 
which  they,  disliking,  had  prevailed  on  him  to  let 
them  hack  away  with  the  axe.  When  he  saw  the 
Presence  coming  he  gave  warning  and  they  flew  to 
the  saw;  and  to  prove  he  had  not  been  keeping  Cave 
he  knocked  off  his  puggari,  without  which  no  self- 
respecting  native  would  ever  appear  before  a  superior. 
With  an  air  of  bashful  confusion  he  rewound  the 
turban  and  humbly  pointed  out  that  he  was  making 
them  use  the  saw. 

Thus  native  assistants  assist.  The  white  man  is 
out  in  the  cold,  dead  hours  before  dawn,  when  the 
beasts  are  gone  to  sleep  and  the  birds  are  not  yet 
awake,  when  the  very  trees  doze  and  the  forest  is  a 
cavern  of  black  silence,  stirred  only  by  the  plump  of 
heavy  dewdrops  on  to  the  decaying  humus  below. 
The  natives  are  in  bed;  and  when  the  white  man 
comes  in  back-broken  at  sunset  he  has  two  hours  of 
asking  why  they  did  not  do  their  work  and  of  doing 
it  for  them.  By  this  means,  despite  the  neglect  of 
many  generations,  the  forests  are  slowly  filling  up 
with  straight,  young  trees,  and  the  bookshops  with 
works  on  the  gratifying  efficiency  of  our  native  public 
services.  That  is  exactly  India. 


183 


XX 

THE  CANAL 

No  rain  had  fallen  for  the  better  part  of  six  months, 
and  the  snows  were  as  yet  unloosened  about  the 
shoulders  of  the  Himalaya.  Out  of  the  foothills  the 
Jumna  issued  on  to  the  endless  level,  like  a  thread  of 
blue  water  on  a  broad  belt  of  dead-yellow  sand  and 
round-worn  pebble.  Over  and  under  and  through 
scrambled  the  scanty  trickle — a  profitless  thimbleful, 
you  would  say,  to  the  vast  plains  and  dry-lipped 
deserts  below. 

Following  it  through  the  thickets  and  over  the 
stones,  you  come  to  a  road  raised  on  a  long  embank- 
ment ;  and  following  that,  you  find  it  presently  closes 
in  on  the  river.  The  stream,  confined  on  this  side, 
appears  to  gather  weight,  and  slides  along  the  more 
swiftly,  as  if  making  up  its  mind  to  a  purpose. 

Then  suddenly  you  look  ahead — and  there  is  no 
more  Jumna  !  It  has  stopped — disappeared.  Across 
its  broad  bed,  with  pier  and  buttress,  bridge  and  battle- 
ment, runs  a  long  dam,  relentlessly  solid.  Between 
the  piers  you  see  double  flood-gates,  each  with  an 
upper  and  a  lower  leaf,  and  a  travelling  winch  on  rails 
above  to  draw  them  up.  But  at  present  they  are  all 
184 


The  Canal 

shut  down,  and  the  stream  pulls  in  vain  against  that 
curb.  Beyond  it  there  is  still  the  broad  bed  of  dead- 
yellow  sand  and  round-worn  pebble — but  only  a  feeble 
ooze  through  chinks,  a  puddle  and  a  gutter-runnel  of 
water  struggle  to  lick  over  it.  What  on  earth  has  be- 
come of  the  Jumna  ? 

Next  moment  you  see.  Before  you,  along  the  right 
bank,  is  another  weir  with  many  piers  and  a  broad 
road  over  it,  double  flood-gates,  and  a  travelling-winch. 
The  river,  now  bolting  outright,  swerves  round  a 
curved  revetment,  rears  back  from  the  dam  in  its  front, 
and  plunges  madly  through  the  arches  of  the  other. 
Under  the  weir  it  is  a  lather  of  foam  ;  a  hundred 
yards  beyond  it  is  in  hand  again,  galloping  with  a  swift 
and  solid  momentum  between  its  narrower  banks. 
The  Jumna  has  ceased  to  be  the  wild  stallion  of  a 
river;  it  is  broken  to  man's  service — bitted  and  har- 
nessed into  a  canal. 

From  now  on  it  has  a  double  use :  it  is  a  highway 
where  there  was  little  road  and  no  railway,  and  it  is  a 
perpetual  spring  of  fertility  where  there  was  only  sand 
and  drought.  In  early  summer,  when  the  melting 
snows  bring  it  down  in  shouting  spate  from  the 
mountains,  the  gates  are  opened  in  the  transverse 
weir,  and  it  tears  along  its  natural  bed  as  well  as  along 
the  canal.  When  the  water  rises  above  the  lower 
leaf  of  the  gates  the  upper  can  either  be  raised  to  let 
it  off"  or  kept  lowered  to  hold  it  in  place.  It  can  be 
held  up  at  the  transverse  weir  and  driven  down  the 
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The  Canal 

canal,  or  it   can   be  held  up  at  the  lateral  weir  and 
eased  off  down  the  natural  bed. 

And  it  takes  some  regulating,  as  the  white-bearded 
engineer  will  tell  you.  He  is  simple  and  courteous 
and  very  keen,  even  after  thirty  uncomplaining  years 
of  canal  work — now  shiver,  now  sweat,  and  always 
work  and  anxiety.  It  is  at  posts  like  this  you  meet 
the  non-commissioned  ranks  of  British  India — like 
this  man,  living  with  a  working  wife,  bringing  up 
children  with  difficulty,  pinching  the  not  over-liberal 
pay  to  squeeze  out  the  expense  of  summers  in  the 
hills.  Such  men — there  are  hundreds  of  them  on 
canals  and  railways,  in  engine-rooms  and  fitting- 
sheds — are  not  the  least  heavily-burdened  of  the  slaves 
of  India.  They  hunger  for  Camden  Town  as  the 
others  hunger  for  St.  James's  Street ;  but  there  is  no 
three-yearly  privilege-leave  for  them.  Their  chil- 
dren must  be  brought  up  in  India  or  not  at  all ;  and 
to  be  country-bred  in  India  is  good  neither  for  mind, 
body,  nor  estate.  In  big  stations  there  may  be  a  club 
for  them,  and  tennis  with  sergeants'  daughters ;  more 
likely  they  will  be  pushed  away  where  there  is  a  white 
superior  to  talk  to  six  times  a-year  and  a  white  equal 
never.  If  you  come  across  such,  and  be  expected, 
you  will  find  the  good  man  in  a  new  white  topi,  and 
the  good  lady  in  an  old  silk  gown,  and  tea  and  Hunt- 
ley  &  Palmer's  biscuits.  Sit  down  and  talk :  you 
seldom  have  such  a  chance  to  do  a  good  deed  without 
any  virtue  of  your  own. 

186 


The  Canal 

So  here,  in  his  little  bungalow,  alone — the  higher 
ranks  of  Public  Works  Engineers  are  few,  and  the 
few  are  here  to-day,  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  canal 
to-morrow,  and  dead  of  enteric  the  next  day — keeping 
his  accounts,  commanding  his  coolies,  sits  the  white- 
bearded  engineer,  and  governs  the  river  Jumna. 
When  the  floods  come  down  it  is  anxious  work,  for 
it  needs  some  masonry  to  stand  against  that  tugging, 
snorting  strain.  It  takes  some  regulation  to  prevent 
the  torrent  from  savaging  banks  and  bottom  and 
swallowing  up  gates  and  travelling-winch  and  piers 
and  all.  To  get  due  warning  of  such  onslaughts  they 
have  just  laid  a  telephone-wire  miles  up  into  the 
hills :  here  is  a  gauge  which,  when  the  water  rises  to 
a  given  height,  automatically  rings  a  bell  at  the  head 
works  below. 

Even  now,  when  there  is  a  bare  three  feet  of  water 
on  the  sill,  there  is  plenty  of  devil  in  the  Jumna. 
The  four  natives  who  man  your  boat  row  as  you 
might  know  that  natives  would — a  slice  in,  a  languid 
scoop,  and  a  good  rest  between  the  strokes ;  yet  you 
race  down,  and  the  boat  will  have  to  go  back  by  bul- 
lock-cart. You  soon  forget  that  you  are  navigating  a 
canal,  for  this  is  as  broad  as  the  Thames  below  Folly 
Bridge,  and  curbed  with  rough  stone  jetties  and 
streaked  with  cross-currents  into  hills  and  valleys  of 
water  like  the  very  Rhine.  Now  your  boat  bump- 
bumps  against  the  bottom,  now  spins  round  a  head- 
long corner,  now  kicks  her  rudder  in  the  air  and  digs 
187 


The  Canal 

her  nose  down  a  sliding  cataract.  Now  you  are 
caught  and  all  but  hurled  against  a  raft  of  sleepers ; 
for  the  canal  is  a  main  highway  of  the  timber  trade. 
Next  you  coast  round  a  big  island,  where  tulip-trees 
mosaic  the  intense  blue  with  black  leafless  boughs  and 
scarlet  blossoms,  where  tribes  of  puff-billed  water- 
fowl, half-duck,  half-cormorant,  jump  off  the  branches 
and  flap  heavily  towards  the  long  spear-grass  above 
the  sand-shoals.  Here  is  a  village  alive  with  calves 
and  staring  brown  faces  ;  here  a  soulless  flat  of  poor 
pasture,  where  the  canal  is  swilling  great  fids  of  bank ; 
here  another  weir-bridle  across  the  still  restive  stream ; 
below  it,  a  shoot  of  beryl-green  water  and  snow-white 
foam  into  soberer,  profounder  reaches  below. 

So  you  could  float  for  days,  with  the  water-air  cool 
on  your  skin  and  the  water-rustle  drowsy  in  your  ear. 
But  wake  up :  this  is  not  Nuneham  or  Ship- 
lake;  this  is  hard  business.  This  Western  Jumna 
Canal  is  part  of  perhaps  the  most  original  and  benefi- 
cent piece  of  engineering  in  the  world.  It  flows  thus 
along  the  watershed  between  the  Ganges  and  Indus 
basins  for  over  a  hundred  miles,  giving  out  water  into 
a  gridiron  of  channels  that  lead  it  to  the  checkered 
fields,  till  at  last  what  is  left  trickles  back  to  its  mother 
Jumna  at  Delhi.  A  second  branch  of  it  heads  out 
the  best  part  of  two  hundred  miles  to  Sirsa  and  Hissar 
and  the  sands  that  fringe  the  Bikanir  desert,  where 
the  year's  rain  is  less  than  twenty  inches,  and  gener- 
ally fails  at  that,  and  two  crops  out  of  three  must 
188 


The  Canal 

sponge  on  the  canal  or  die  of  thirst.  This  pleasant 
river  of  tulip-trees  and  water-fowl  spells  life  or  death 
two  hundred  miles  away. 

This  is  only  one  of  the  great  canals  with  which 
British  rule  has  turned  flood  into  steady  moisture  and 
desert  into  corn-land,  has  mitigated  bad  years  and 
filled  to  overflowing  the  abundance  of  good.  This 
particular  Western  Jumna  Canal,  it  happens,  was 
there  before  we  came  :  an  Emperor  of  Delhi — Feroz 
Shah,  in  the  reign  of  our  Edward  III. — cut  it  and 
planted  it  with  trees.  Only  his  engineer  made  the 
tiny  oversight  of  leading  it  along  the  line  of  drainage 
instead  of  the  watershed,  so  that  wheels  and  buckets 
and  oxen  were  needed  to  prevent  it  from  drying  the 
land  instead  of  wetting  it.  Left  derelict  till  our  time, 
it  was  then  realigned;  and  its  perfected  principle 
was  applied  to  nearly  all  the  great  rivers  of  Northern 
India. 

The  principle  is  briefly  this.  The  rivers  have  eaten 
out  low,  narrow  valleys  for  themselves ;  so  that  an 
ordinary  dam  would  not  be  enough  to  raise  the  waters 
to  the  upper  lands  beyond  the  valleys,  while  simple 
channels  could  not  reach  them  at  all  except  at  points 
low  down  the  river's  course  :  you  would  have  to  take 
off  cuttings  and  lead  them  over  miles  of  country  be- 
fore they  could  begin  their  work.  The  plan,  there- 
fore, has  been  hit  on  of  intercepting  the  whole  bulk 
of  the  rivers  as  soon  as  they  enter  the  plains,  and 
carrying  it  to  the  watershed  that  runs  parallel  with  the 
189 


The  Canal 

course  of  the  streams :  thence,  by  gravitation,  it  dis- 
tributes itself.  Of  these  canals  the  Jumna  sends  out 
three — one  eastward,  one  westward  from  Tajawallah  to 
Delhi,  and  another  from  Delhi  to  Agra.  The  Ganges 
is  intercepted  at  Hurdwar,  whence  four  thousand 
miles  of  main  and  branch  lead  it  back  to  the  natural 
bed  at  Cawnpore ;  the  stream  that  gathers  from  tribu- 
taries below  Hurdwar  is  again  taken  up  and  sent  to 
reinforce  the  original  canal.  In  the  Punjab  the  Ravi, 
the  Beas,  the  Sutlej,  and  now  the  Chenab,  have  been 
similarly  shed  abroad  on  to  waste  places ;  on  the  lat- 
ter especially  colonies  have  come  from  congested  dis- 
tricts to  land-grants  in  what  till  now  was  desert.  Of 
the  great  rivers  of  the  north,  only  the  Jhelum  and  In- 
dus remain  untapped. 

These  works  of  irrigation  are  brilliant,  effective, 
popular,  and — the  crowning  grace  of  public  works — 
they  pay.  It  was  worth  the  while  of  Government  to 
make  them,  even  if  it  were  not  a  father's  duty,  for 
the  increased  land-revenue  they  bring  in  ;  but,  apart 
from  that,  they  actually  pay  by  the  water-rates  levied 
from  the  owners  whose  fields  they  give  upon.  In 
each  village  a  water-registrar,  corresponding  to  the 
land-registrar,  keeps  the  account  of  the  fields  irrigated, 
and  the  headman  collects  the  rent.  The  Punjab  canals 
already  pay  over  six  per  cent.,  though  the  Chenab 
works  are  but  just  completed ;  the  North- Western 
Province  gets  about  the  same ;  the  patriarchal  West- 
ern Jumna  yields  nine. 

190 


The  Canal 

That  is  good  hearing ;  the  idea  of  charity  in  Gov- 
ernment is  hateful  to  well-balanced  minds.  But  for 
the  true  eulogy  of  Indian  irrigation  you  must  go  to 
the  cultivator.  Forms  of  Government  the  cultivator 
neither  knows  nor  recks  of;  even  justice  he  does  his 
best  to  clog  with  perjury ;  but  he  understands  and  ap- 
preciates water  on  the  land.  Go  into  any  village  and 
mark  the  difference  between  this  field  and  that — the 
dense,  long-strawed,  full-eared  barley ;  the  dark, 
thick-podded  rape ;  the  dense  blue-flowering  gram- 
pulse — on  one  side :  the  stunted,  bloomless  blotches 
— is  it  meant  for  crop  or  fallow  ? — on  the  other. 
Water  is  scarce  just  now ;  seven  or  ten  days  of  full 
canal,  then  seven  or  ten  of  dry,  is  the  usual  alterna- 
tion. The  ryot  grumbles  on  the  dry  days,  as  tillers 
of  the  soil  will ;  but  every  village  has  a  grey-beard 
old  enough  to  remember  what  happened  when  winter 
rains  failed  in  the  past — in  the  years  before  the  sahibs 
bridled  the  river  and  brought  it  to  the  village  gate. 
And  on  the  full  days — go  out  at  evenfall  and  see  the 
ryot  naked  to  mid-thigh  scraping  entrances  in  his  lit- 
tle embankments  with  his  antediluvian  hoe.  First 
one,  then  another,  rod  by  rod,  till  the  whole  field  is 
soaked.  Listen  to  the  glug-glug  of  the  water  as  the 
last  compartment  gets  its  douse,  and  look  at  the  great 
peace  on  the  ryot's  face.  You  can  almost  hear  his 
soul  glug-glugging  with  the  like  satisfaction. 


191 


XXI 

THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  SIKHS 

THE  Sikhs  are  the  youngest  of  the  great  powers  of 
India.  A  kind  of  Hindu  Protestants,  their  Luther 
arose  about  1500  to  fulminate  against  caste  and  the 
worship  of  idols.  Instead  of  Shiva  and  Kali,  they 
worship  their  Bible,  which  is  called  the  Granth. 
They  abhor  tobacco,  and  it  is  impiety  to  shave  or 
cut  the  hair.  Sometimes,  when  a  Sikh  plays  polo, 
you  may  see  it  come  undone  and  wave  behind  him 
like  a  horse-tail.  From  Puritans  they  turned  to 
Ironsides,  praying  and  fighting  with  equal  fervour, 
wearing  an  iron  quoit  in  their  turbans,  partly  as  a 
sign  of  grace,  and  partly  as  a  defence  against  a 
chance  sword-cut. 

For  some  three  hundred  years  they  fought  the 
Mussulmans,  Mogul  or  Afghan,  for  the  dominion  of 
the  Punjab,  and  won  it  in  the  end.  The  Mussul- 
mans tortured  the  Sikh  teachers  to  death  with  their 
families ;  the  Sikhs  sacked  and  massacred  in  return. 
The  Mussulmans  took  Amritsar,  blew  up  the  temple 
of  the  Granth,  and  washed  its  foundations  in  the 
blood  of  sacred  cows ;  the  Sikhs  took  Lahore,  blew 
up  the  mosques,  and  washed  their  foundations  in 
192 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

the  blood  of  unclean  swine.  Fanatics  and  heroes, 
they  lived  only  for  the  holy  war,  and  became  the 
barrier  of  India  against  the  Mussulman  tribes  of  the 
North-West.  At  last,  in  1823,  the  Sikhs  were 
united  under  Ranjit  Singh  into  the  greatest  power 
of  India.  But  he  died  in  1839 ;  four  wives  and 
seven  concubines  were  burned  with  him,  and  you 
can  see  their  tombs  under  marble  lotuses  in  Lahore. 
Ten  years  later  the  second  Sikh  War  was  over,  and 
the  Punjab  was  British.  If  the  Sikh  rule  was  short, 
their  battles  have  ever  been  long. 

The  later  history  of  the  Sikhs — how  kindly  they 
accepted  British  rule,  which  has  still  treated  their 
religion  with  more  than  tolerant  respect ;  how  they 
supplied  and  supply  to-day  noble  regiments  to  our 
army ;  the  splendid  services  they  rendered  in  the 
Mutiny,  but  a  decade  after  their  conquest ;  the  un- 
swerving gallantry  and  devotion  which  they  have 
displayed  on  every  field  of  honour, — all  this  is 
part  of  the  military  history  of  the  Empire.  The 
very  officers  of  Gurkha  and  Pathan  and  Dogra  regi- 
ments admit  that  the  Sikh  is  the  ideal  of  all  that  is 
soldierly. 

Ranjit's  capital  was  Lahore,  but  the  holy  city  has 
ever  been  Amritsar.  "  The  Pool  of  Immortality,"  it 
means,  and  here  in  the  centre  of  the  pool  is  the 
Golden  Temple.  In  its  present  form  it  is  not  yet 
a  century  old— quite  an  infant  in  India.  Amritsar, 
indeed,  is  full  of  new  things  ;  for,  as  it  is  the  Mecca, 

193 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

it  is  also  the  Manchester  of  the  Punjab.  Carpets 
and  shawls  and  silks  are  manufactured  there,  or 
brought  in  by  merchants  from  Persia  and  Tibet, 
Bokhara  and  Yarkand.  Here  you  can  see  modern 
native  India  untainted  by  Europe. 

Amritsar  wears  an  air  of  solid  prosperity.  Not  in 
the  least  like  the  manufacturing  towns  we  know, 
lacking  the  machinery  of  Bombay  or  Calcutta,  it 
neither  shadows  its  streets  with  many-storeyed 
factories  nor  defiles  its  air  with  smoke.  But  it 
wears  a  uniform  and  thriving  aspect,  as  of  a  town 
with  a  present  and  a  future  rather  than  a  past. 
The  Bond  Street  of  Delhi  is  a  double  row  of  de- 
cayed mansions  propped  up  by  tottering  booths ;  the 
houses  of  Amritsar  are  middle-sized,  regular,  stably 
built  of  burned  bricks,  neither  splendid  nor  ruinous. 
The  looms  clatter  and  whir  in  the  factories,  and  the 
merchant  bargains  between  the  whiffs  of  his  hookah 
in  his  shop,  and  Amritsar  grows  rich  in  a  leisurely 
Indian  way,  unfevered  by  Western  improvements. 

To  the  Western  eye  it  is  unenterprising  and  rather 
shabby.  The  stable  comfort  of  Amritsar  stops  short 
at  the  good  brick  walls;  inside,  the  shops  are  bare 
brick  and  plaster.  There  is  nothing  in  the  least 
imposing  about  it.  "  Chunder  Buksh,  Dealer,"  says 
one  placard,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  say  what  else 
he  could  call  himself;  for  his  stock  seems  to  con- 
sist of  one  fine  carpet,  some  brass  pots,  and  a  towel. 
Above  him  is  "  Ali  Mohammed,  Barrister-at-Law,"  in 
194 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

a  windowless,  torn-blinded  office,  which  you  would 
otherwise  take  for  the  attic  of  Chunder  Buksh's 
assistant.  But  compared  with  the  rest  of  India, 
Amritsar  is  a  model  of  wellbeing.  It  is  dusty,  but 
otherwise  almost  clean ;  the  streets,  of  course,  are 
full  of  bullocks  and  buffaloes,  but  it  seems  rare  that 
animals  share  their  bed  with  men;  there  are  plenty 
of  people  all  but  naked,  but  it  is  rather  from  choice 
or  religious  enthusiasm  than  of  necessity.  The 
trousered  ladies,  strolling  with  trousered  babies  on 
their  hips  or  smoking  hubble-bubbles  on  shop 
counters,  wear  silver  in  their  blue-black  hair,  pearls 
in  their  noses,  gold  in  their  ears;  they  jingle  with 
locked-up  capital.  Finally,  there  is  a  Jubilee  statute 
of  the  Queen,  and  a  clock-tower  for  all  the  world 
like  an  English  borough's.  But  besides  these  and 
the  Government  offices  and  the  railway-station  there 
is  hardly  a  whisper  from  the  West  in  the  town ; 
and  in  Amritsar  you  begin  to  conceive  a  new  respect 
for  India. 

The  stream  in  the  streets  sets  steadily  towards  the 
Golden  Temple.  From  the  heavy-browed  city  gate 
to  the  holy  pool  the  winding  alleys  are  splashed  with 
all  the  familiar  hues — orange  outshining  lemon  and 
emerald  throttling  ultramarine.  Following  the  stal- 
wart, bearded  pilgrims,  in  the  midst  of  the  city  of 
shopkeepers  you  suddenly  break  into  a  wide  square : 
within  it,  bordered  by  a  marble  pavement — white, 
black,  and  umber — a  green  lake  dances  in  the  sun- 
195 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

light;  and  in  the  midst  of  that,  mirrored  in  the  pool — 
you  look  through  your  eyelashes,  for  the  hot  rays  fling 
back  sevenfold-heated,  blinding — gleam  walls  and  roofs 
and  cupolas  of  sheer  gold. 

A  minute  or  two  you  blink  and  stare,  then  you 
see  that  it  is  a  small  temple  on  an  island  with  a  cause- 
way leading  to  it  from  under  an  arch.  And  after  the 
first  blink  and  stare  your  notions  of  beauty  rise  up  and 
protest  against  it.  The  temple  is  neither  imposing  by 
size  nor  winsome  by  proportion.  It  has  two  storeys 
— the  lower  of  marble,  inlaid,  like  the  marble  of  Agra, 
with  birds  and  beasts  and  flowers,  but  with  none  of 
Agra's  grace  and  refinement ;  all  above  it  is  of  copper- 
gilt.  Above  the  second  storey  rises  something  half- 
cupola,  half-dome,  but  it  is  not  in  the  middle  ;  there 
are  smaller  cupolas  at  the  side  overlooking  the  cause- 
way, and  others  smaller  still  at  the  far  side.  The 
whole  temple  is  smaller  than  St.  Clement  Danes,  and 
a  little  building  has  no  right  to  be  irregular.  If  the 
Taj  Mahal,  you  say,  which  is  three  times  this  size, 
can  take  the  trouble  to  be  symmetrical — Well,  if  this 
is  the  masterpiece  of  modern  India — As  for  the  gold, 
it  blinds  you  for  the  first  moment  and  amuses  you  for 
the  second ;  but  you  might  as  well  ask  beauty  of  a 
heliograph. 

Nevertheless,  do  not  go  away,  for  you  will  hardly 

see  anything   more   Indian.     Outside   the  gate   they 

show  you   a   Government   ordinance  that  everybody 

must  either  conform  to  the  religious  customs  of  the 

196 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

place  or  forbear  to  indulge  his  curiosity  ;  you  bow,  and 
a  bearded  giant,  who  might  be  a  high-priest  for 
dignity,  takes  off  your  boots  and  ties  on  silk  slippers 
instead.  You  leave  your  cigar-case  behind  you: 
tobacco  must  not  defile  the  holy  place.  Then,  be- 
hind a  white-bearded  policeman — who  performs  the 
triple  function  of  guiding,  preventing  you  from  doing 
anything  impious,  and  clearing  worshippers  out  of  the 
way  before  you — you  start  forth  to  see. 

The  pilgrims  shuffle  on  eagerly  round  the  pavement 
to  the  great  gate  before  the  causeway.  On  a  gilt 
tablet,  in  English  and  Punjabi,  stands  the  record  of  a 
miracle  :  how  that  a  great  light  from  heaven  fell  before 
the  holy  book,  and  then  was  caught  up  into  heaven 
again,  whence  the  learned  augured  much  blessing 
upon  the  British  Raj.  Past  the  gate  they  press  with- 
out turning  the  head,  though  it  is  carved  and  pictured 
over  every  inch.  On  one  side  of  the  entrance  a 
marble  tablet  shows  the  legend  XXXV  Sikhs  and 
something  in  Punjabi.  From  the  gate  you  issue  on 
to  the  causeway.  It  also  is  flagged  with  marble,  and 
lined  with  gilded  lamp-posts ;  but  the  lamps  above  the 
gold  are  that  crass-blue  and  green-coloured  glass  of 
the  suburban  builder,  and  more  than  one  hangs 
broken.  So  you  come  to  the  sanctuary  itself — a 
lofty  chamber  with  four  open  doors  of  chased  silver. 
Within  sit  three  priests  on  the  floor,  under  a  canopy 
of  blue  and  scarlet,  before  a  low  ottoman  draped  in 
crimson  and  green  and  yellow.  The  high-priest, 
197 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

eagle-eyed  and  long  black-bearded,  reads  continually 
in  a  loud  voice  from  the  Granth ;  beside  him  sits  one 
with  a  gilt-handled  wisk  and  fans  the  sacred  book. 
At  another  side  sit  two  musicians :  one  twangs  a  sort 
of  one-stringed  mandoline,  one  thrums  a  tom-tom. 
Before  the  Granth  lies  a  cloth ;  and  each  believer, 
crouching  in,  flings  on  it  flowers  or  cowries  or  copper 
coins  for  his  offering.  To  the  white  man  they  bring 
what  looks  like  a  dry  half-orange  or  candied  citron, 
only  white ;  it  is  made  of  sugar,  and  the  white  man 
responds  with  the  offering  of  a  rupee.  The  walls 
about  this  strange  worship  blaze  with  blue  and  red 
and  gold  in  frets  and  scrolls  and  flower-tendrils ; 
above  are  chambers  and  galleries  of  the  same  and 
studded  mirrors ;  in  one  more  than  holy  room  are 
brooms  made  of  peacocks'  feathers  wherewith  alone  it 
may  be  swept. 

That  is  the  great  shrine  of  all ;  but  there  is  much 
else.  All  round  the  lake  are  palaces  of  stone  and 
white  marble  belonging  to  the  great  Sikh  chiefs  who 
came  here  to  worship.  Before  them,  on  the  pave- 
ment, men  squatting  under  canvas  screens  hawk 
flowers — lotus,  jasmine,  marigold,  or  scabious — to  be 
offered  before  the  Scripture.  In  one  of  the  palaces, 
which  matches  the  temple  with  a  gilt  dome  of  its  own, 
you  see  a  glass  case ;  within  it,  under  crimson  silk, 
rest  the  sword  and  mace  of  some  old  Sikh  Boanerges, 
mighty  in  prayer  as  in  battle.  Then  there  is  a  tower 
temple  of  eight  storeys,  dedicated  to  a  bygone  saint 
198 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

and  miracle- worker,  the  lower  chamber  aflame  with 
paint  and  gold.  As  the  policeman  enters  he  touches 
the  step  with  his  finger;  a  woman  in  violet  trousers 
flings  a  flower  on  to  a  cloth  and  ottoman  like  that  of 
the  central  shrine ;  a  woman  in  green-and-gold 
trousers  places  a  bread-cake  before  it  and  lays  her 
forehead  on  the  marble  sill ;  others  grovel  and  sham- 
poo it  with  their  hands.  The  next  thing  you  come 
to  is  a  plain  shed  with  a  dynamo  that  supplies  the 
shrines  and  gardens  with  electric  light.  After  that  a 
group  of  naked  fakirs,  powdered  white  with  ashes, 
with  long  mud-matted  hair  and  mad  eyes.  Then  a 
door,  fast  closed  and  seeming  to  lead  nowhither,  with  a 
tiny  wreath  of  marigolds  hung  on  it. 

Everywhere  the  same  grotesque  contradictions — 
splendour  and  squalor,  divinity  and  dirt,  superstition 
and  manliness.  The  Western  mind  can  make  noth- 
ing of  it,  cannot  bring  it  into  a  focus.  You  simply 
hold  your  head,  and  say  that  this  is  the  East,  and  you 
are  of  the  West.  In  the  treasury  above  the  gate  are 
silver  staves  and  gilt  maces,  canopies  of  gold  and 
diadems  of  pearls  and  diamonds.  In  the  sacred, 
putrid  lake  rot  flowers.  A  fakir  standing  before  an 
enclosure  drones  in  a  full  voice  words  you  do  not  un- 
derstand, like  a  psalm  without  any  end  to  it :  the 
refrain,  after  every  half-dozen  words,  sounds  like 
"  Hullah  hah  leay."  Inside  the  shrine  the  high-priest 
never  ceases  to  intone  the  Granth,  nor  the  other  priest 
to  fan  it,  nor  the  musicians  to  tinkle  and  thrum ;  and 
199 


The  Shrine  of  the  Sikhs 

in  and  out  that  holy  place  fly  clouds  of  pigeons, 
perching  on  the  canopy  and  fouling  the  growing  pile 
of  offerings  before  the  ottoman.  At  every  turn  you 
come  on  little  shrines  with  books  on  silken  cushions 
and  prostrate  adorers.  A  calf,  unchecked,  is  trying  to 
lick  the  gold  off  the  great  gateway. 


200 


XXII 
ON  THE   BORDER 

INDIA  ends  with  the  mountains  as  suddenly  as  it 
began  from  the  sea.  Out  of  the  stretching  plain,  in 
which  you  could  lay  down  Great  Britain  and  Ireland 
and  France  and  then  lose  them,  you  draw  into  a  nar- 
rowing valley.  Blue  hills  shepherd  it  on  either 
side,  not  high,  but  rising  abruptly  out  of  the  level ; 
over  their  heads,  deep  back,  lean  mounting  sheets  of 
perpetual  snow. 

On  the  tongue  of  the  valley  stands  Peshawar.  It  has 
stood  sentry  there  ever  since  cities  were,  looking  for- 
ward through  the  teeth  of  the  hungry  mountains,  look- 
ing back  to  the  gullet  of  the  fat  plains.  The  mountains 
are  lean  and  swift  and  bloody  ;  the  plains  are  gorged 
and  lazy  and  timid  ;  the  bases  of  the  hills  are  the  line 
between,  and  it  is  only  one  stride  over  it.  That  curl- 
ing zigzag  of  smoke  up  the  hillside  is  the  Khyber, 
which  has  belched  horde  after  horde  to  fatten  on  the 
corn  and  oil  of  India.  On  the  verandah,  where  the 
grave  merchant  spreads  for  your  approval  the  carpets 
of  Penjdeh  and  the  silks  and  velvets  of  Bokhara ;  in 
the  trim  garden  of  the  club-house,  where  children  are 
playing  with  shuttlecocks — you  are  just  an  hour  from 
201 


On  the  Border 

the  rocks  where  without  armed  guard  no  camel-load 
is  safe  from  looters,  and  where  stranger  or  native 
alike  is  shot  in  the  back  for  his  rifle. 

Peshawar  city  is  almost  as  old  as  the  hills,  but,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  the  border,  it  makes  no  enticing  show  of 
riches.  It  has  been  sacked  and  sacked  and  sacked 
again,  and  looks  as  if  it  expected  to  be  sacked  anew 
to-morrow.  The  junction  of  a  skein  of  trade-routes, 
it  looks  as  poor  and  bare  and  crowded  as  the  most 
miserable  village.  It  is  one  huge  caravanserai,  a  mart 
wherein  half  Asia  bargains  for  riches  that  must  be 
enjoyed  in  safety  elsewhere. 

So  that  native  Peshawar  is  like  no  other  town  in 
India.  There  is  nothing  Indian  in  its  aspect,  nothing 
Afghan  nor  Persian  nor  Tartar :  it  is  merely  Eastern. 
The  bazaars  and  houses  are  packed  as  tight  as  they 
can  stand.  Its  shops  are  bare,  even  for  oriental  shops 
— square,  naked  cupboards,  three  feet  above  the  street, 
where  the  trader  unrolls  his  stuffs,  kneads  his  dough, 
grinds  his  grain,  puffs  his  blowpipe  into  the  charcoal, 
or  hammers  his  sheet-metal  into  bowls  and  pitchers. 
The  houses  are  naked  mud  on  naked  wooden  frames, 
neither  painted  nor  carved — just  places  of  shelter,  and 
no  more.  The  mosques  are  no  more  than  places  of 
prayer  for  a  safe  journey  :  you  turn  in  the  street  at 
sunset  and  see  a  row  of  a  dozen  men  swaying  and 
kneeling  in  a  three-walled  recess  no  bigger  than  a 
tramcar.  Peshawar's  only  public  buildings  are  the 
fort,  heaving  up  its  huge  mud  walls  on  one  side,  and 
202 


On  the  Border 

the  old  palace  with  its  watch-tower  on  the  other. 
From  it  you  look  over  the  city — compact,  cramped, 
flat-roofed,  split  by  narrow  and  winding  alleys — a 
frightened  herd  of  houses  huddling  shoulder  to 
shoulder  in  the  open  plain. 

The  house-tops  are  fenced  round  with  walls  and 
mat-screens  ;  the  poles  that  bear  the  screens  give  the 
idea  of  a  city  that  has  never  stood  undisturbed  long 
enough  to  take  down  its  scaffolding.  As  the  sun 
sinks  over  the  Khyber  all  Peshawar  comes  out  on  to 
the  roof  to  breathe  the  cool.  You  imagine  that  the 
screens  are  intended  against  wife-stealers  and  sharp- 
shooters impartially,  and  that  Peshawar  knows  it  is 
safer  to  take  the  air  on  its  own  house-top  than  among 
the  knives  in  the  street  below.  Plain  street  and  house, 
bazaar  and  people, — that  is  all  there  is  of  Peshawar. 
Bleak,  populous,  as  old  as  time  and  as  young  as 
yesterday,  Peshawar  remains  to-day  as  Nineveh  and 
Tyre,  as  Rome  and  London  were — the  archetype  of 
cities,  the  lowest  common  denominator  of  habitation. 

It  is  only  a  caravanserai,  yet  it  is  choked  with  life 
and  business.  Going  under  the  needle-eyed  city  gate 
you  are  instantly  in  a  throng  as  dense  as  Cheapside's. 
It  is  a  daily  fair  :  all  the  peoples  of  the  unhastening 
East  meet  within  its  walls  till  you  can  hardly  move 
in  the  street.  They  are  hammering  and  embroider- 
ing and  chaffering  to-day  as  they  did  yesterday  and 
the  day  after  the  founding  of  Babel.  Here  and  there, 
before  an  open  upper  room,  you  see  the  sign  of  a 
203 


On  the  Border 

pleader — a  babu  alibi-merchant,  imported  to  swell  the 
list  of  Peshawar's  unpunished  murders;  but,  for  the 
rest,  the  city  goes  back  straight  into  the  book  of 
Genesis.  Here  is  red  Esau — only  he  has  dyed  his 
beard  that  flaming  crimson-orange  to  hide  the  grey 
hairs  in  it — driving  in  his  goats.  There  is  hawk- 
eyed,  hawk-nosed  Lot  sitting  in  the  gate.  Then  you 
lift  up  your  eyes,  and  behold  the  camels  are  coming. 
To  the  slim  dromedary  of  Egypt  these  are  as  the  re- 
triever to  the  greyhound — heavy,  thick-set,  furred 
with  soft  brown  hair,  as  if  they  wore  tippets  and 
petticoats.  The  veiled  woman  striding  behind  them 
in  dust-stained  trousers  might  be  Rachel,  the  heavy 
bales  of  merchandise  hiding  her  father's  gods. 

From  Kabul  with  apples  and  raisins  and  pistachio- 
nuts,  from  Bokhara  and  Teheran  with  rich-coloured 
fabrics,  come  the  laden  camels,  and  they  wind  back  up 
the  Khyber  heavy  with  cloth  and  raw  sugar  and  tools. 
Then  the  Peshawar  bazaars  are  not  merely  exchanges, 
but  manufactories  as  well.  One  street  is  a  row  of 
clattering  coppersmiths :  they  ornament  bronze  ves- 
sels with  bands  and  scrolls  of  white  by  sheer  ham- 
mering of  the  metal.  Next  are  the  silversmiths,  each 
with  his  tiny  charcoal  furnace  on  the  shop-floor  under 
his  nose.  They  are  common  to  all  India,  but  per- 
haps a  shade  more  necessary  to  Peshawar :  they  turn 
rupees  into  the  nose-rings  and  bangles  which  are  the 
native  savings-bank.  As  you  pass  out  of  the  gate  you 
are  among  the  waxcloth-workers,  and  these  are  more 
204 


On  the  Border 

special  to  the  place.  Waxcloth  is  not  a  kind  of  lino- 
leum, but  any  material — silk,  cotton,  satin — embroid- 
ered in  wax.  You  have  seen  it  often  enough  in  Eng- 
land— white  or  golden  peacocks  and  palms  on  blue  or 
crimson ;  but  it  astonishes  you  to  see  it  being  made. 
A  boy  squats  on  the  floor  with  a  lump  of  sticky  white, 
like  putty,  on  the  ball  of  his  thumb ;  with  a  steel- 
pointed  stylus  he  kneads  it  up,  takes  a  point-full,  as 
you  fill  a  pen,  and  begins  to  draw  on  the  fabric.  You 
would  think  no  skill  could  ever  make  the  treacly  stuff 
manageable,  yet  the  shaggy  stripling — let  us  hope  his 
hand  is  cleaner  than  it  looks — draws  a  peacock's 
feather  in  it  with  nothing  more  to  copy  than  a  spider 
has  in  making  his  web.  When  it  is  done  and  dry,  it 
remains  for  ever,  and  you  can  wash  your  work  of  art 
without  bringing  off  a  line. 

This  for  the  city ;  now  drive  out  of  the  gate  over 
the  dusty  two  miles  to  the  cantonment.  The  evening 
sun  will  slant  into  your  eyes — the  European  quarter 
stands  forward  towards  the  mountains,  screening  the 
city — and  the  air  after  sunset  will  be  like  cold  water 
on  your  skin.  At  the  end  of  February  Peshawar  has 
still  two  months  of  cool  before  it.  Later  it  becomes 
a  crackling  inferno,  but  till  May  it  breathes  as  divine 
a  climate  as  man  could  wish  to  live  in.  Along  the 
Mall  the  yellow  grass,  the  palms,  and  the  crimson- 
purple  bells  are  India ;  the  trees  just  knobby  with  new 
buds,  the  hedges  beginning  to  redden  and  cream  into 
roses,  the  soft  breathing  of  violets  are  pure  spring. 
205 


On  the  Border 

The  morning  air  has  the  nip  of  spring,  the  runnels  of 
water  from  the  Swat  River  canal  fill  the  valley  with 
whispers  of  its  coming.  India  crumbles  and  soaks 
from  dry  season  to  wet ;  this  cool  leaf-fringed  can- 
tonment, with  its  straight  avenues  of  sheer  spring,  is 
new  blood  in  the  veins  of  northern  men. 

Now,  as  the  patrol  was  riding  one  of  these  same 
avenues  of  spring  on  a  windy  night  in  February,  there 
flew  a  sudden  volley  out  of  the  dark,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing they  found  one  sowar  dead  and  the  other  with  a 
bullet  through  his  thigh,  and  both  carbines  gone. 
They  were  away  in  the  hills,  where  a  true-shooting 
weapon  is  even  as  a  tall  hat  in  London.  In  the  blue 
hills,  an  hour  from  the  violets,  he  who  owns  a  Martini 
or  Lee-Metford  bears  the  hall-mark  of  respectability. 
He  is  fairly  started  in  life,  a  credit  to  his  family,  a 
factor  to  be  reckoned  with  in  society.  Presently  he 
will  build  himself  a  tower,  and  then  perhaps  steal 
another  rifle  and  sell  it.  With  the  proceeds  he  will 
buy  a  wife  or  two — they  are  a  great  deal  cheaper 
than  breech-loading  rifles — and  found  a  family.  It 
may  even  be  his  to  bring  the  feud  of  generations  to 
an  honourable  end,  by  killing  the  last  adult  member 
of  the  opposing  family.  So  he  will  die  full  of  years 
and  honour,  bequeathing  to  his  first-born  a  stainless 
name  and  a  title-deed  sighted  up  to  2000  yards. 

A  judge  on  circuit  finds  in  his  camp  a  hook-nosed, 
white-bearded  grandfather,  hung  like  a  trophy  with 
knives  and  swords,  with  a  Webley  revolver — the  gift 
206 


On  the  Border 

of  a  European  well-wisher — and  a  couple  of  flintlock 
pistols  in  his  belt,  with  a  six-foot  mother-of-pearl- 
inlaid,  sickle-butted  jezail  over  his  shoulder,  and  be- 
hind him  two  young  men  similarly  armed. 

"  You  kept  my  petition  waiting,  O  Presence,"  he 
explains  ;  "  this  night  I  shall  sleep  in  your  camp." 

"  I'm  hanged  if  you  will,"  says  the  Presence. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  going  back  to  my  tower  by 
dark  ?  "  laughs  the  old  man.  "  Myself  and  my  son 
and  my  nephew  are  the  last  of  our  family,  and  our 
enemies  have  a  dozen  left  still."  So  he  sleeps  in  the 
inviolable  camp  of  the  sahib,  and  goes  back  to  his 
tower  next  morning,  and  pulls  up  the  twenty-foot 
ladder  after  him.  He  has  not  been  out  between  sun- 
down and  sunrise  for  years — not  since  he  shot  his 
tenth  man  of  the  other  side — and  he  never  means  to. 
Only  one  day  it  occurs  to  the  sahib  that  he  has  not 
seen  his  old  friend  for  some  time,  and  on  inquiry  he 
learns  that  they  got  him  in  the  end. 

An  Afridi  subadar-major — senior  native  officer  of 
a  famous  regiment — one  day  went  on  furlough.  His 
time  ran  out  and  he  did  not  return.  A  week  went 
by,  and  then  another ;  still  no  subadar-major.  The 
officers  wondered  :  it  was  impossible  that  a  man  of 
his  service,  of  his  proved  loyalty,  should  have  de- 
serted ;  where  could  he  be  ?  Another  week ;  and 
there  appeared  in  barracks  a  dirty-haired  youth  with  a 
letter.  "  I  am  grieved  to  overstay  my  time,"  wrote 
the  subadar-major,  "  but  what  can  I  do  ?  I  am  the 
207 


On  the  Border 

last  of  my  clan,  and  two  of  my  enemies  sit  outside 
my  tower  night  and  day."  It  seemed  a  poor  look-out 
for  the  gallant  officer,  and  the  next  on  the  list  for 
promotion  was  congratulated  by  his  clansmen  in 
advance.  But  a  week  after,  unannounced,  there 
walked  into  barracks  the  subadar-major  himself, 
chest  expanded,  whiskers  curling  with  satisfaction. 
"  A  wonderful  thing,  Colonel  Sahib,"  he  explained. 
"I  awoke  one  morning  and  looked  out  of  my  loop- 
hole, and  there — I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes — 
there  were  both  my  enemies  in  one  line  !  So  I  took 
my  rifle  and  shot  them  both  with  one  bullet,  and  re- 
turned hither  with  all  speed." 

You  will  hardly  believe  it,  but  that  is  the  normal 
state  of  social  intercourse  among  the  Pathans.  And 
not  only  among  them  across  the  border,  but  in  the 
plain  also  :  wherever  the  Pathan  is,  there  rifle-steal- 
ing is  the  staple  industry,  murder  a  social  duty,  and 
violent  death  the  common  lot  of  man.  On  Thursdays, 
riding  past  the  jail  to  the  meet  of  the  Peshawar  Vale 
Hounds,  you  will  remark  on  it  if  you  do  not  see  a 
man  being  hanged.  But  in  such  cases  as  shooting  the 
man  who  stole  your  wife,  or  shooting  the  man  who 
shot  your  brother  who  stole  his  wife,  or  shooting  the 
man  who  shot  your  father  who  shot  his  brother  who 
stole  your  mother — why,  in  domestic  matters  like  this 
it  is  not  expedient  that  the  law  should  be  over-curious. 
It  is  not  well  to  hang  men  for  doing  their  social  duty  : 
a  wise  Government  will  temper  routine  with  sympathy. 
208 


On  the  Border 

Occasionally,  indeed,  this  attitude  is  slightly  mis- 
apprehended. A  worthy  Pathan  was  much  troubled 
by  the  scandalous  misbehaviour  of  a  vicious  mother. 
He  confided  his  sorrows  to  a  magistrate,  who  promised 
to  help  him  in  any  way  he  could.  "  Well  then, 
sahib,  the  best  plan  I  can  think  of  is  this.  One  night 
some  brigands  from  over  the  border  will  come  down 
and  abduct  my  mother.  I  shall  complain  to  you,  and 
you  will  send  Staunton  Sahib  with  police.  But  they 
will  not  find  my  mother,  and  we  shall  hear  no  more 
of  her  for  ever." 

"  Ah,  this  thou  should'st  have  done, 
And  not  have  spoken  on't," 

murmured  the  magistrate.  But  in  the  end  he  got  the 
bad  old  lady  locked  up  for  one  of  her  misdeeds,  and 
the  son  was  as  happy  as  if  he  had  scuppered  her  him- 
self in  the  character  of  a  trans-border  raider. 

It  is  the  truth  that  here,  on  the  thin  line  between 
elaborate  civilisation  and  primeval  barbarism,  where 
you  may  begin  your  morning  by  trying  a  duet  with  a 
lady  on  a  grand  piano  and  finish  it  with  a  tulwar 
through  your  belly — here  there  is  more  sympathy  be- 
tween white  man  and  native  than  anywhere  else 
in  India.  British  soldiers  pull  tugs-of-war  against 
Kohati  school-boys,  whose  fathers  may  easily  have 
shot  their  room-mates.  British  gentlemen  sit  down  to 
table  with  Mussulmans — each  considering  the  other 
irretrievably  ripe  for  damnation,  but  each  knowing  the 
209 


On  the  Border 

other  to  be  a  man.  The  Briton  was  made  to  do  with 
the  barbarian,  being — the  more  you  think  of  it  the 
clearer  you  see  it — half  a  barbarian  himself.  For  if 
the  carbine-thieves  crouching  in  the  wind-gusts  by  the 
roadside  are  one  side  of  the  matter,  the  squad  here  at 
riding-school,  the  squad  there  at  bayonet-drill,  the 
Sikh  recruits  practising  the  double — these  are  the 
other.  For  the  first  time  in  India's  history  the  moun- 
taineers look  down  over  the  border  at  India  rich,  but 
India  armed  and  unsleeping.  With  us  it  is  as  with 
them :  the  hand  keeps  the  head. 


210 


XXIII 
THE  KHYBER 

THE  front-door  of  India,  Bombay,  is  magnificent  j 
the  back-door,  the  Khyber,  is  therefore  naturally 
shabby.  Out  of  the  rose-hedges  of  Peshawar  a  dust- 
yellow  road  carries  you  through  a  dust-grey  plain, 
heading  for  dust-drab  mountains.  India  seems  worn 
out — giving  up  the  weary  effort  to  be  soil,  reverting 
limply  to  rock,  sand,  mud. 

An  hour  your  tonga  tongles — there  is  no  ready- 
made  word  for  its  combination  of  rumble,  jolt,  jump, 
spin,  and  fly — straight  for  the  hills,  which  seem  ever 
to  recede.  You  mark  a  point  between  two  ridges  as 
the  mouth  of  the  Pass;  you  drive  through  it,  and  you 
are  still  in  the  plain ;  that  gap  beyond  must  be  the 
mouth.  Then,  almost  insensibly,  you  do  enter  the 
jaws.  Walls  of  brown  rock  enclose  you  on  either 
side;  a  round  hill  of  brown  rock,  crowned  with  a  mud 
fort,  blocks  you  in  front ;  a  turn  in  the  road,  and  a 
sweeping  ridge  of  brown  rock  cuts  you  off  behind. 
Above  the  walls,  beyond  the  hill,  behind  the  ridge, 
spring  up  with  every  turn  other  walls,  other  hills, 
other  ridges,  more  sheer,  more  towering,  more  mazy 
than  the  first.  You  rise  and  rise,  now  along  the  gully 
211 


The   Khyber 

of  a  defile,  now  sweeping  round  a  rim,  now  zigzag- 
ging up  a  face;  at  one  moment  peeping  over  a 
shoulder  at  the  plain  behind,  the  next  dashing  con- 
fidently towards  two  sky-swallowing,  khaki-coloured, 
black-spangled  humps  that  seem  to  fill  the  whole 
world.  Frowning  over  your  head,  slipping  away 
from  under  your  foot,  letting  in  vast  perspectives  of 
more  khaki  rock  and  black  bush,  shutting  up  the 
world  into  two  cliffs  and  an  abyss — the  Khyber  is  a 
mere  perplexity  of  riotous  mountain. 

You  would  say  these  savage  hills  could  support 
nothing  but  solitude — yet  here  are  the  mountaineers. 
A  couple  of  lithe  aquiline  young  men  in  khaki  and 
sandals  rise  out  of  a  heap  of  stones  as  you  pass,  and 
shoulder  Snider  muskets.  On  the  hill  above,  under 
the  mud-walled  block-house,  loll  half-a-dozen  more. 
These  are  of  the  Khyber  Rifles — Afridis  who,  now  that 
the  war  is  over,  have  returned  without  malice  and 
without  abashment  to  their  old  service  of  guarding 
the  Pass.  They  start  out  of  nothing  at  every  wind 
of  the  road ;  on  all  the  lower  summits  you  can  just 
make  out  khaki  pickets  against  the  khaki  country. 

For  to-day  the  Pass  is  very  full.  Above  you,  in  a 
short  cut  between  two  serpentines  of  the  driving  road, 
you  see  the  ordered  columns  of  a  British  regiment  de- 
scending; and  at  the  next  turn  you  almost  fling  a 
file  of  its  transport  mules  over  the  precipice.  Spin 
down  the  next  decline,  shave  the  boulder  at  the  angle, 
and — Ai !  toot !  wheeze,  wheeze,  toot !  ai,  pig  ! — we 
212 


The   Khyber 

are  plump  in  the  middle  of  two  meeting  caravans  en- 
tangled in  a  commissariat-train.  The  camels  from 
Kabul  barracked  for  the  night  at  Landi  Kotal,  those 
from  Peshawar  at  Jamrud ;  to-day,  which  is  the  open 
day,  they  cross  in  the  Khyber.  The  Pass  is  now — or 
was  then — open  two  days  a-week,  which  means  that 
it  is  picketed  by  Khyber  Rifles  while  the  caravans  go 
through.  Twice  a-week  they  go  up  towards  Kabul ; 
twice  a-week  they  come  down  into  India,  needing  the 
whole  day  to  make  the  Pass.  This  is  the  sum  of  the 
intercourse  between  India  and  Afghanistan. 

Now  comes  an  hour  of  steady  jostle  and  shove  and 
bang,  of  abortive  attempts  to  toot  the  broken-winded 
bugle  and  more  successful  vilifications  of  all  camels, 
bullocks,  camelmen,  bullock-drivers,  and  all  progeni- 
tors and  collaterals  of  the  same.  The  down-coming 
and  the  up-going  camels  of  course  are  jammed  in  a 
second,  and  of  course  the  drivers  do  not  care.  One 
laden  beast  balances  himself  on  the  eyebrow  of  the 
drop  and  lifts  his  eyes  to  heaven  in  plaintive  appeal 
against  the  woes  of  life ;  the  next  huddles  under  the 
wall  and  tries  to  shove  it  back  with  a  truss  of  straw, 
so  as  to  make  more  room ;  the  next  plants  himself 
directly  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  squeals  in  help- 
less horror  as  the  tonga  barges  at  him.  Struggling 
down  to  where  the  road  touches  the  Khyber  Water 
under  the  mud  battlements  of  Ali  Musjid,  we  enter 
the  stratum  of  bullock-carts,  just  as  they  have  finally 
decided  that  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  lie  down  across 
213 


The   Khyber 

the  path  and  let  the  camels  clamber  over  them.  No 
created  thing  can  wake  emotion  in  a  commissariat 
bullock.  Twist  his  tail,  hit  him  over  the  head,  heave 
a  tonga-wheel — half  as  heavy  as  a  field-gun's — into 
his  flank :  he  looks  benevolent  and  remains  placidly 
in  the  way.  When  at  last  the  idea  of  action  has  pene- 
trated his  hide,  he  methodically  hooks  his  yoke  into 
the  nearest  wheel  with  a  look  of  profound  meekness, 
and  plunges  into  meditation  again.  So  the  tonga  stops 
and  everybody  abuses  everybody  else  till  they  are 
tired ;  then  they  rest  a  little,  and  abuse  a  little  more 
with  fresh  breath ;  finally,  they  unite  to  unhook  the 
yoke  and  push  the  cart  on  to  the  bullocks.  They, 
finding  the  cart  moving  by  itself,  are  eventually  pene- 
trated by  an  idea  again.  "  It  seems,  brother,  they 
wish  us  to  move  again."  "  Very  well,  brother ;  let  us 
always  do  what  they  wish  us  to  do."  And  so  they 
move  thoughtfully  on. 

The  Kabul-bound  camels  are  beneath  us  now, 
promenading  with  dignity  along  the  bed  of  the  stream. 
It  was  worth  the  delay  to  look  at  them ;  for  the  camel 
of  Central  Asia  is  the  flower  of  his  otherwise  dis- 
creditable family.  His  cousins  of  Egypt  and  India  are 
necessary  evils :  he  is  a  joy  to  the  eye,  and  he  knows 
it.  They  are  all  neck  and  leg,  all  corners  and  mis- 
placed joints,  half-snake,  half-folding  bedstead :  his 
daintily  tilted  nose  is  thrust  out  of  a  shower  of  rich 
brown  silken  fur.  It  cascades  from  the  ears  all  down 
his  throat  to  the  chest,  like  a  lady's  boa,  only  far 
214 


The   Khyber 

longer  and  finer,  and  especially  far  better  worn.  His 
shoulders  and  thighs  are  clothed  in  brown  astrachan. 
Altogether  he  is  an  animal  with  contours,  not  a  fold- 
ing monstrosity  ;  and  he  knows  it.  Other  camels  are 
tied  head  to  tail  on  the  march  :  he  tramps  along 
serenely  under  his  heavy  load,  picking  his  own  way, 
convinced  of  the  superiority  which  others  only  feign, 
not  to  be  thrown  out  of  his  business  by  anything  less 
devilish  than  a  wheeled  double  centaur  with  the  voice 
of  a  bugle. 

From  Ali  Musjid  the  road  seesaws,  with  a  balance 
of  ascent  and  the  pass  gradually  widens.  You  begin 
to  see  villages — or  the  dry  bones  of  them.  Jagged 
stumps  of  towers  and  rents  where  walls  were  print 
the  record  of  the  punishment  of  the  Afridis.  When 
they  took  our  fort  at  Landi  Kotal  they  stripped  off 
every  stick  of  wood  and  carried  it  away  ;  when  we  de- 
stroyed their  towers  we  did  likewise  :  on  these  stark 
hills  wood,  next  to  a  rifle,  is  the  most  desirable  posses- 
sion life  can  offer.  As  you  swing  up  and  down  the 
grades  of  dust  you  see  now  and  again  the  black  blot 
of  a  cave-mouth  in  the  hills :  these  are  now  the  vil- 
lages of  the  Khyber  Afridis. 

At  last  you  turn  your  final  corner.  In  front  of 
you,  across  folds  and  rifts  in  the  ground,  is  a  white 
encampment ;  to  your  right  you  are  quite  close  on  a 
long  quadrangular  fort,  towers  at  the  angles,  loop-holes 
along  the  tall  walls,  the  Union-Jack  over  all.  Behind 
it  is  another  encampment.  You  have  reached  the 
215 


The   Khyber 

quarters  of  the  Khyber  Brigade  at  Landi  Kotal.  You 
are  on  the  very  rim  of  British  India.  Behind  the 
elbow  of  the  road  is  Landi  Khana,  whither  the  Afghan 
escort  brings  the  Kabul  cavaran  :  the  click  of  a  tele- 
gram, the  call  of  a  bugle,  and  British  troops  could  be 
in  Afghanistan  again. 

But  we  must  not  talk  of  themes  like  these.  Mean- 
while here  are  three  battalions  and  a  mountain  battery 
and  sappers,  under  the  best-trusted  brigadier  in  India, 
every  man  as  fit  as  the  hills  can  make  him,  and  foot- 
ball-ankles the  only  solace  of  the  hospital.  It  is  not 
exactly  active  service,  but  it  is  the  next  best  thing  to 
it.  The  surrounding  population  is  obedient  in  large 
things  and  sportive  in  small.  The  Shinwari  vil- 
lagers— those  are  their  walls  and  square,  tapering, 
forty-foot  towers  sloping  up  the  branching  valley 
northward — are  thoroughly  friendly  :  when  you  ob- 
serve the  easy  access  to  their  homes  and  their  young 
corn  just  greening  the  dust-coloured  earth,  you  wonder 
the  less  at  their  virtue.  The  very  Afridis  southward 
submit  to  the  General  as  their  arbiter.  They  have  a 
custom,  when  they  plough,  of  meeting  in  jirgah,  and 
there  each  man  lays  down  a  stone  before  him ;  while 
the  ploughing  lasts  the  stones  are  down,  and  all  blood- 
feuds  sleep.  The  other  day,  the  war  with  the  Sirkar 
being  over,  and  a  feeling  abroad  that  the  rifles  had 
been  silent  too  long,  they  came  to  the  General  Sahib 
for  permission  to  lift  the  stones  and  open  the  each- 
other-shooting  season.  "  The  first  village  that  begins 
216 


The   Khyber 

will  be  destroyed,"  said  he,  and  they  went  away  sor- 
rowful, but  obedient. 

Only  in  small  things  they  are  a  law  unto  them- 
selves :  you  could  hardly  expect  them  to  deny  them- 
selves the  exercise  of  rifle-stealing  with  a  whole 
brigade  of  Lee-Metfords  and  Martinis  before  their 
very  eyes.  So  on  dark  nights  the  promising  young 
Afridi  creeps  down  towards  the  sentry,  who,  if  he 
is  sleepy,  will  be  found  next  morning  with  a  knife 
in  his  back  instead  of  a  rifle.  As  a  rule,  he  is  not 
sleepy.  Then  there  are  shots,  and  perhaps  shots  in 
return;  but,  what  with  the  dark  and  the  hillman's 
cunning,  and  the  danger  of  shooting  at  large  in 
camp  at  night,  it  is  seldom  that  a  rifle-thief  is 
bagged.  There  was  a  story  of  a  British  sentry  who 
was  both  knifed  and  beaten  over  the  head  with  the 
butt  of  his  own  rifle  ;  but  he  clung  to  the  sling  like 
a  Briton,  and  the  Afridi  went  empty  away. 

All  things  considered,  you  had  better  be  wary 
when  going  home  after  dinner  in  the  Khyber  camp. 
Within  the  perimeter  let  your  "  friend  "  follow  closely 
on  the  Ghurkha's  "  Hahlt,  huggas  ther  ?  " — outside  it 
they  shoot  first  and  challenge  afterwards.  Better 
take  the  air  by  day — say,  on  a  route-march  with  the 
Ghurkhas.  Khaki  jackets  and  short  baggy  breeches 
that  leave  a  bare  knee  above  the  putties,  black  belts, 
and  hunting-horns  on  their  buttons  like  our  Rifles', 
bayonet  on  one  hip,  and  broad-bladed  kukri  on  the 
other,  a  tiny  round  cap  worn  over  the  ear,  and  leaving 
217 


The   Khyber 

the  sun  to  get  through  the  close-cropped  bullet-head 
if  he  can — the  jolly,  flat-faced  little  mountaineers 
will  repay  you  for  more  than  a  morning's  march  with 
them.  They  leap  from  stone  to  stone  like  he-goats 
till  you  are  right  up,  up  below  the  clouds,  and  the 
Khyber  country  and  Afghanistan  are  unrolled  below 
you. 

You  see,  and  at  length  you  understand  the  cam- 
paign against  the  Afridis.  Gad,  what  a  country  ! 
Not  a  level  yard  for  miles,  and  miles,  and  miles  !  Not 
a  fair  field  of  fire  within  the  whole  horizon.  Noth- 
ing but  a  welter  of  naked  khaki-coloured  mountain. 
Shale  scree  giving  on  to  precipice,  ridge  entangling 
ridge,  height  topping  height.  You  toil  up  a  knee- 
loosening  face  to  the  summit,  and  there  is  another 
summit  dominating  you ;  up  that,  and  there  is  another, 
and  yet  another,  and  another.  No  end,  no  direction, 
no  security — nothing  but  exposure  and  sheer  toil. 
From  the  white  steeps  of  the  Hindu  Khush  in  the  sky 
to  the  back-dotted  wild-olive  bushes  beside  you — not 
a  green  thing,  not  an  open  place,  nothing  but  hard, 
sterile,  unorientable  fanged  impossibility. 

Only  down  there,  on  the  other  side,  the  Kabul  river 
threads  the  mountains  in  its  mail  of  sunshine.  There 
is  level  ground  and  green  corn-fields  in  the  valley ; 
there  is  Dakka,  the  first  Afghan  town;  and  there,  in 
that  spreading  pool  of  green,  the  hazy  shimmer  must 
be  Jellalabad.  How  many  marches  ?  Is  that  blur 
their  cavalry  lines  ?  It  is  easy  to  be  wise  about  the 
218 


The   Khyber 

forward  policy  from  your  arm-chair;  but  go  up  with 
a  regiment  and  look  out  from  your  own  barren  peaks 
on  to  the  green  plains  over  the  border.  You  will  un- 
derstand what  a  frontier  feels  like,  and  why  frontiers 
have  a  habit  of  not  standing  still. 


219 


XXIV 
THE  MALAKAND 

THE  flagging  ponies  gave  one  last  hoist  to  the  tonga, 
in  the  afterglow  six  miles  of  upward-straining  road 
lay  behind  us  along  the  huge  mountain  like  a  pack- 
thread. We  turned  an  elbow  of  cliff,  and  behold  it 
was  night.  Off  the  empty  hillside — bare  precipice 
above,  bare  abyss  below — we  were  suddenly  in  a 
dense  wood  of  black  trees,  among  shadows  and 
echoes ;  and  all  about,  above  in  the  sky,  plumb  below 
in  some  bottomless  pit  deep,  deep  beneath  our  feet, 
camp-fires  played  on  white  canvas.  Where  were  we  ? 
Which  was  back  or  front,  above  or  below,  head  or 
heels  ?  The  world  seemed  to  be  tilted  up  on  end. 

"  Is  the  house  of  the  Sahib  near  ?  "  says  I,  in  my 
pure  Urdu.  "Near,  O  Presence."  "Where?" 
For  answer  the  half-soldier,  half-footman  pointed 
above  his  head.  Exactly  in  line  with  the  ventilation 
of  my  helmet  I  saw  a  light  hanging  between  two 
stars.  It  was  about  ten  yards  as  the  crow  flies ; 
as  the  man  climbs  it  looked  ten  miles.  Surely  the 
world  was  tilted  up  on  end.  This  was  the  Malakand. 

Four  years  ago  nobody  except  political  officers  had 
ever  heard  of  the  Malakand,  or  knew  whether  it  was 

220 


The  Malakand 

a  mountain,  a  river,  or  the  title  of  a  local  chief.  For 
four  years  past  it  has  been  the  most  frequented  name 
on  all  the  Frontier.  It  is  a  pass  lying  a  little  to  the 
east  of  north  of  Peshawar,  almost  due  north  of  Now- 
shera,  and  forty-eight  miles  from  it.  The  Malakand 
opens — if  "  opens  "  is  the  word  for  such  a  tangle — 
into  almost  the  only  part  of  the  North-West 
Frontier  which  we  had  been  able  to  let  alone.  The 
tribes  beyond  it — in  Swat  and  Bajaur  and  Dir,  and  all 
the  other  uncouth  places  with  uncouth  names — were 
content  to  stew  in  the  blood  of  their  own  feuds,  and 
prudently  we  let  them  stew. 

Before  1895  our  frontier-post  was  Mardan — 
"  Mardan,  where  the  Guides  are."  Here,  ever  since 
its  foundation,  that  famous  regiment  has  been  quar- 
tered in  the  intervals  of  campaigns  which  have  con- 
sistently added  to  the  lustre  of  its  record.  The  only 
corps  in  India,  except  the  Ghurkha  battalions,  which 
has  permanent  quarters,  the  Guides  have  made  Mardan 
less  of  a  station  than  a  regimental  home.  Here  are 
its  family  heirlooms — the  mess-walls  covered  with 
heads  of  buffalo  and  ibex,  antelope  and  mountain- 
sheep,  with  banners  taken  from  the  enemy,  and  queer 
Greco-Buddhist  statuary  excavated  out  of  the  neigh- 
bouring hills.  Here  is  the  regimental  cemetery — full 
now,  and  overflowing  into  a  new  one — and  an  arch 
and  little  garden  tardily  erected  by  Government  to 
the  memory  of  the  handful  of  the  Guides  who  died  at 
their  post  round  Cavagnari  in  Kabul.  There  is  home- 

221 


The  Malakand 

liness  in  the  little  swimming-bath  in  the  officers' 
garden,  as  there  is  romance  in  the  fort  with  sentries 
of  many  types — here  a  Sikh,  there  an  Afridi,  a 
Ghurkha,  a  Rajput,  a  Dogra — for  "  God's  Own  "  is 
welded  of  the  pick  of  all  the  fighting  races  of  India. 

In  enormous  long  white  trousers  sepoys  and  sowars 
walk  placidly  about  their  home  and  the  home  of  their 
fathers :  for  the  fighting  native  puts  down  his  young 
son  for  the  Guides  as  you  might  at  home  for  the 
Travellers'.  You  come  across  a  native  officer  of 
forty-two  years'  service — straight  away  to  before  the 
Mutiny — a  smiling  little  old  gentleman,  whose  dyed 
beard  only  just  matches  the  mahogany  of  his  skin. 
He  regrets,  politely,  that  the  Guides  were  not  able  to 
be  present  at  Omdurman,  and  remarks,  as  an  in- 
centive to  my  future  efforts,  that  he  himself  saw  a 
war-correspondent  killed  at  Landakai.  Every  officer 
or  man  you  meet  has  the  air  of  a  gentleman  taking  his 
ease  in  his  own  house.  Mardan  is  the  concrete 
epitome  of  the  spirit  that  makes  a  regiment — the  only 
satisfactory  translation  I  ever  met  of  the  words  esprit 
de  corps. 

Through  Mardan  in  1895  advanced  the  force  which 
brought  the  Malakand  into  frontier  politics.  Chitral 
was  to  be  relieved,  and  the  relieving  force,  taking  the 
directest  road,  had  to  force  the  Pass,  and  we  have  held 
it  ever  since.  But  Chitral  was  relieved  from  the 
other  side,  from  Gilgit,  and  the  reward  of  our  inter- 
ference with  the  Malakand  was  the  furious  assault 

222 


The  Malakand 

upon  it  and  the  fort  of  Chakdara  beyond,  which 
inaugurated  the  great  frontier  war  of  1897  an^  ^gS. 
Now  it  makes  one  more  of  our  garrisons  beyond  the 
old  frontier  of  India — garrisons  where  no  man  knows 
whether  he  will  wake  up  to-morrow  to  find  peace  or 
war.  Whether  such  posts  make  in  the  end  for  the 
one  or  the  other,  who  is  to  decide  ?  Without  their 
deterrent,  say  some,  you  would  have  the  tribes  on  you 
to-morrow.  Without  their  menace,  urge  others,  you 
would  never  have  had  the  tribes  on  you  at  all.  Un- 
fortunately both  may  be  true,  and  the  result,  in- 
security, is  one  and  the  same. 

In  the  morning  it  was  possible  to  look  over  the 
position — but  easier  to  look  than  to  comprehend. 
You  will  find  it  put  clearly  both  in  word  and  plan  in 
Mr.  Winston  Churchill's  "Story  of  the  Malakand 
Field  Force " ;  but  no  putting  short  of  actual  sight 
can  do  justice  to  the  supernatural  complication  of  the 
Malakand.  "  It  would  take  the  whole  British  army 
to  hold  it,"  said  a  good  judge ;  "  and  then  I  don't 
quite  see  what  the  plan  would  be."  Try  to  arrange 
a  box  of  tin  soldiers  on  a  rockery,  and  you  will  get 
some  idea  of  it.  There  is,  indeed,  a  tennis-court,  but 
that  has  been  made  artificially  ;  otherwise  there  is  not 
level  ground  for  a  billiard-table.  From  the  top  of  the 
place  where  I  eventually  landed  to  the  bottom,  where 
I  saw  the  coolies'  camp-fires,  you  could  easily  pitch 
a  stone ;  yet  to  walk  from  one  extremity  of  the 
position  to  the  other  would  take  you  hours.  The 
223 


The  Malakand 

road  comes  up  the  Pass,  but  where  it  ought  to  de- 
bouch on  to  a  plateau  it  winds  through  a  sieve  of 
deep  holes.  What  ought  to  be  the  diverging  sides  of 
the  Pass  are  terraces  of  hills,  each  one  commanded  by 
the  one  behind  it.  What  ought  to  be  the  sloping, 
opening  valley  beyond  the  Pass  is  choked  by  a  hand- 
ful of  rocky  hills  promiscuously  flung  all  about  it.  As 
a  military  position,  you  can  say  this  of  it,  that  if  you 
have  enough  men  to  hold  higher  hills  than  the  assail- 
ant, keeping  touch,  you  ought  to  be  able  to  hold  it ; 
and  if  the  assailant  has  enough  men  to  hold  higher 
hills  than  you  have,  keeping  touch,  he  ought  to  be 
able  to  take  it — which  amounts  to  saying  nothing 
at  all. 

This  luminous  theory  may  explain  why  the  authori- 
ties build  forts  on  this  hill,  and  then  pull  them  down 
and  put  them  up  again  on  that ;  why  they  first  put  the 
troops  here,  then  there,  then  take  them  away  alto- 
gether, then  bring  them  back  and  reinforce  them. 
But  we  may  leave  that  to  them,  and  turn  to  the  only 
proper  occupation  on  a  frontier — going  on.  Over 
sky-lines,  round  corners,  you  must  still  be  going  on  to 
see  what  there  is  on  the  other  side.  Round  the 
corner  of  the  right-hand  wall  of  the  Malakand  you 
can  just  see  a  peeping  tent  or  two ;  as  you  scramble 
down,  these  enlarge  into  the  camp  of  the  Movable 
Column — a  brigade  stationed  down  in  the  Swat 
Valley,  beyond  the  Pass,  ready  to  move  at  any 
moment  against  any  enemy  that  may  appear.  Further 
224 


The  Malakand 

on — you  are  moving  up  a  broad  valley  with  rigidly 
enclosing  walls — the  driving  road  stops  at  a  bridge. 
Under  it  is  the  turbulent  slither  of  the  Swat  j  beyond 
is  the  fort  of  Chakdara. 

This  is  the  sentry  on  the  main  road  to  Chitral. 
The  bridge  is  India  all  over :  piers  of  stout  stone — it 
must  need  it  all  when  the  Swat  comes  down  in  spate 
— carry  stout  cables  ;  but  the  long  bridge  that  is  hung 
from  them  is  tacked  on  with  wire,  buckling  in  the 
middle,  swinging  in  the  wind.  The  fort  is  of  a  type 
already  familiar — heavy  gate,  a  horn-work  to  protect 
horses,  towers  and  loopholes,  signal-station  at  the 
top,  blockhouses  on  the  immediately  covering  hills. 
In  the  barracks  that  form  one  side  sweat  and  frizzle 
half  a  battalion  of  Punjab  infantry.  The  bullet-dints 
of  the  last  siege  can  still  be  seen  on  the  walls :  the 
next  may  begin  to-morrow. 

For  our  last  bit  of  frontier  push  a  few  miles  further 
up  the  Swat.  It  is  a  queer  valley  historically — a 
valley  with  a  past.  Many  think  that  it  was  by  it 
that  Alexander  the  Great,  the  first  and  best  of  frontier 
generals,  descended  to  the  conquest  of  the  Punjab; 
certainly  the  ancient  Buddhists  occupied  it  in  great 
importance.  You  find  their  sculptuary — half-Indian 
types,  half-Greek — under  almost  every  mound  from 
here  to  Mardan,  and  west  and  east  into  Bajaur  and 
Buner;  their  hemispherical  shrines  crown  appropriate 
hillocks,  both  here  and  in  the  Khyber ;  either  they  or 
Alexander  made  the  road — too  stiffly  graded  for  these 
225 


The  Malakand 

degenerate  days — which  still  runs  alongside  ours. 
The  conclusion  from  all  of  which  is  that  the  Swat 
Valley  is  capable  of  far  more  importance  than  it  has 
lately  claimed.  The  Buddhists  were  great  traders, 
and  this  may  have  been  one  of  their  main  highways 
into  Central  Asia,  as  it  was  Alexander's  into  India. 
What  has  been  may  be  again. 

Of  the  riches  of  the  valley  there  can  be  no  question. 
A  gridiron  of  canals,  drawn  from  the  Swat,  has  turned 
it  into  one  teeming  rice-field.  In  this  hard  land  it  is 
luxury  to  drop  your  eyes  from  the  bleak  mountains  to 
the  vivid  green.  After  the  summer  there  are  loads  on 
loads  of  rice  to  export,  and  cloth  and  tea  to  bring 
back.  If  we  only  had  the  administration  of  the  val- 
ley,— but  as  we  canter  over  the  stony  bed  of  a  tributary 
we  are  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  them.  Here  are  the 
Swatis,  who  two  years  ago  found  Paradise  by  thou- 
sands in  the  attempt  to  slaughter  our  countrymen, 
come  out  to  bid  us  good  day,  and  escort  us  against 
any  possible  harm.  Then  they  were  enemies  ;  now 
they  are  local  levies — irregular,  very  irregular,  forces 
of  her  Majesty,  who  supplies  them  with  their  Sabres 
and  Sniders.  Next  year,  or  next  week,  or  to-morrow 
— well,  never  mind  to-morrow. 

The  shaggy  group — perhaps  fifty  of  them,  a  dozen 
parish  councillors  on  short-barrelled  country-breds, 
and  the  rest  ambling  along  on  foot — belongs  to  the 
tribe  of  the  Yussufzais,  or  sons  of  Joseph.  Every- 
body on  the  frontier  firmly  believes  that  they  are  the 
226 


The  Malakand 

lost  ten  tribes  of  the  House  of  Israel.  Their  vices 
suggest  it,  and  certainly  they  look  it.  Powerful 
beaks,  thick  outward-drawn  lips,  floating  raven-wing 
hair  and  beards,  eyeballs  a  trifle  close  together — only 
not  the  eyes  of  your  Jew — eyes  hard  as  flint-stone.  I 
was  told  that  there  is  a  place  named  after  the  Yussuf- 
zais  on  the  borders  of  Persia  and  Beluchistan,  al- 
though nobody  in  that  country  to-day  knows  that 
such  a  tribe  exists.  That  is  suggested  as  one  of  the 
halting-places  of  the  Israelites  on  their  travels  east- 
ward. It  would  be  a  queer  irony  if  one-half  of  the 
kingdom  of  Solomon  had  turned  to  the  Jews  we  know 
and  the  other  half  to  these  wild  beasts  of  hillmen. 
Never  mind  who  they  are :  they  are  uncommonly 
amiable  to-day,  and  would  die  for  the  Sahibs  as  a 
matter  of  course.  So  we  troop  along  to  the  spur  of 
Landakai,  whence  the  Upper  Swat  Valley  pushes  its 
emerald  tongue  yet  farther  into  the  mountains.  The 
Swatis  discourse  of  the  fight  there  little  over  a  year 
ago,  when  our  people  and  theirs  respectively  killed 
each  other ;  they  discuss  the  points  of  the  engage- 
ment with  calmness  and  absolute  impartiality.  The 
game  is  over  now,  and  they  bear  no  malice.  To- 
morrow, when  the  reliefs  go  up  to  Chitral,  when  the 
Mad  Fakir  comes  down  again — then  they  will  have 
another  try  at  cutting  our  throats  ;  but  always  with- 
out malice,  and  in  the  best  spirit  of  the  game. 


227 


XXV 

THE  FRONTIER  QUESTION 

THE  frontier  question  is  like  the  frontier  country. 
Toilfully  surmount  one  branch  of  it — and  it  is  com- 
manded and  controlled  by  another.  Struggle  through 
the  pass  of  one  problem — and  it  opens  on  to  a  worse 
tangle  of  others. 

Take  a  typical  case — Chitral.  At  the  first  recon- 
naissance nothing  could  be  simpler.  Obviously,  for 
a  host  of  reasons,  we  ought  to  keep  clear  of  Chitral. 
An  invasion  of  India  in  anything  like  force  from  that 
side  is  all  but  inconceivable.  The  country,  as  well 
as  the  country  between  it  and  India,  is  infernal,  the 
inhabitants  devilish.  Before  we  began  to  meddle  they 
were  content  to  exercise  their  devilishness  upon  each 
other.  Our  interference  has  brought  us  two  costly 
and  profitless  wars  already;  it  threatens  a  fresh  one 
every  spring  when  the  Chitral  garrison  is  relieved.  It 
clogs  our  finances  with  the  permanent  expense  of  the 
Chitral  and  Malakand  garrisons  and  of  the  Malakand 
movable  column,  which  is  necessary  to  cover  the  re- 
liefs by  threatening  the  tribesmen's  villages ;  for  we 
no  more  hold  the  road  to  Chitral  than  we  do  the  road 
from  the  Cape  to  Cairo.  Our  interference  hampers 
228 


The  Frontier  Question 

our  policy  by  the  consciousness  of  a  perpetually  vul- 
nerable point.  Decidedly  we  ought  never  to  have 
gone  to  Chitral ;  ought  never  to  have  stayed  there  ; 
ought,  if  we  must  stay  there,  to  have  communicated 
with  it,  as  originally,  from  Gilgit.  The  whole  busi- 
ness is  a  palpable,  costly,  ghastly  blunder. 

Thus  triumphantly  we  crown  that  height.  And 
then,  unfortunately  for  our  comfort  of  mind,  we  begin 
to  observe  fresh  heights  to  be  crowned  above  us.  As, 
for  instance,  the  following.  It  is  quite  true  that  In- 
dia could  never  be  assailed  in  force,  especially  by  an 
army  bringing  guns  and  transport,  from  Chitral.  Yet 
it  has  a  strategical  importance — contingent,  but,  as- 
suming the  contingency,  vital.  From  Chitral  down 
the  Chitral  and  Kunar  valleys  a  comparatively  easy 
road  runs  to  Jellalabad.  Therefore,  if  we  were  fight- 
ing Russia,  as  many  think  we  should  do,  along  the 
Kabul-Kandahar  line,  even  a  small  force  descending 
that  valley  from  Chitral  could  turn  our  flank,  work 
round  our  rear,  break  up  our  whole  position.  That 
for  one  point.  For  another :  we  had  to  go  to  Chitral, 
because  if  we  had  not  Russia  would  have  put  an  agent 
there,  who  would  have  made  it  his  business  to  stir  up 
the  tribes  against  us ;  so  that  we  should  have  had  the 
wars  of  '95  and  '97  just  the  same,  only  worse.  For 
another  point :  even  though  we  thought  it  was  wrong 
to  go  to  Chitral,  and  though  Sir  George  Robertson 
was  wrong  to  meddle  with  its  dynastic  quarrels,  could 
you  leave  him  to  be  cut  up  ?  For  another :  even 
229 


The  Frontier  Question 

though  Lord  Rosebery  was  prudent  in  refusing  to  hold 
Chitral  or  make  the  road  from  the  Malakand,  can  you, 
having  once  advanced  against  Asiatics,  safely  retire  ? 

The  more  you  look  at  it,  the  more  it  mazes  you — 
point  topping  point,  and  argument  crossing  argument. 
And  that  is  only  the  very  tiniest  fraction  of  the  whole 
frontier  question.  There  are  a  dozen  places  like 
Chitral,  each  with  a  tangled  problem  of  its  own ;  and 
above  all  are  the  greater  questions — the  influence  on 
India  proper,  the  defence  against  Russia — with  all 
their  branches.  And  the  peculiarly  exasperating 
feature  of  these  difficulties  is  that  every  action  we 
take  seems  to  leave  them  more  confounded  than  be- 
fore. 

We  went  to  Kabul  in  1840-42  and  1878-80,  each 
time  with  great  expense  and  loss.  Yet  you  find  men 
in  India  firmly  convinced  that  we  must  go  to  Kabul 
again  when  the  Amir  dies,  and  again  when  the  next 
Amir  dies,  and  so  on  to  an  infinity  of  dynasties. 
What  policy  could  be  more  heroic  or  more  impotent  ? 
You  know  not  whether  to  call  it  bravery  or  despair ; 
and  there  are  other  men  who,  recognising  this,  say 
that  the  next  time  we  go  to  Kabul  we  must  stay.  It 
comes  to  this :  we  went  there  twice  to  preserve  a 
buffer  against  Russia;  and  now,  the  third  time,  we  are 
to  destroy  that  buffer  by  our  own  act.  It  is  precisely 
thus  that  the  frontier  lures  you  on. 

Similarly  with  the  recent  war.  When  you  speak 
of  "  the  war  "  in  India  now,  you  can  only  mean  one 
230 


The  Frontier  Question 

war — the  Tirah  -  Mohmund  -  Mamund  -  Swat  -  Bajaur- 
Buner  campaign  of  '97  and  '98.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  disappointment  and  a  little  bitterness  in  India 
about  "  the  war."  Civilians,  as  a  rule,  execrate  it 
root  and  branch ;  soldiers  feel  that  perhaps  the  most 
difficult  campaign  in  history,  and  deeds  certainly  never 
surpassed  for  endurance  and  valour,  have  been  scantily 
recognised  at  home,  where  popular  applause  and  of- 
ficial reward  have  been  reserved  for  the  luckier  heroes 
of  easier  enterprises.  The  feeling  is  most  natural; 
but  the  blame,  if  there  is  any,  lies  not  with  the  British 
Government  nor  the  British  public.  They  inevitably 
reward  and  applaud  campaigns,  not  according  to  their 
difficulty,  but  according  to  their  results.  When  "  the 
war  "  was  over,  what  was  there  to  show  for  it — for  the 
greatest  exertions  of  the  largest  force  which  the  empire 
has  put  into  the  field  for  a  generation  ?  Only  the 
prospect  of  more,  and  similarly  inconclusive,  wars  in 
the  near  future.  If  more  could  have  been  done  with 
the  force,  then  any  blame  must  lie  with  the  generals. 
If  all  was  done  that  man  could  do,  then  the  blame  is 
with  the  Indian  authorities  who  embarked  so  huge  a 
force  on  an  enterprise  which  could  never  justify  its 
employment. 

Yet  that  is  not  quite  fair  either.  For  the  great 
campaign,  though  nobody  pretends  that  it  achieved 
results  commensurate  with  the  force  squandered  upon 
it,  did  at  least  issue  in  some  tangible  gain.  The  tribes 
did  not  come  out  of  it  so  well  as  they  seem  to  have 
231 


The  Frontier  Question 

done.  Probably  they  suffered  less  loss  in  men  than 
we  did ;  certainly,  though  there  was  a  hollow  pretence 
of  disarmament,  they  were  not  disarmed.  Yet,  in 
one  way,  they  were  vastly  impressed.  The  Afridis, 
for  an  example,  had  always  held  themselves  invulnera- 
ble in  Tirah ;  a  British  force  marched  through  their 
valleys,  destroying  crops  and  villages  at  will. 

Briefly,  we  proved  that  at  any  time  we  choose  we 
can  exterminate  the  Afridi  nation.  We  can  occupy 
their  valleys  in  unassailable  force,  destroy  everything, 
and  drive  men,  women,  and  children  into  the  winter 
snows  to  starve  and  freeze  to  death.  The  knowl- 
edge of  that — and  they  know  it  well  enough — is  a 
warning  even  to  their  levity  against  more  than 
ordinary  misbehaviour  in  the  future.  But  then — an- 
other height  to  complicate  the  position — the  extermi- 
nation of  the  Afridis  is  just  what  we  do  not  want. 
Setting  aside  the  atrocity  of  it,  we  want  to  keep  the 
Afridis  for  our  own  use.  The  fighting  races  of  India 
proper  are  even  now,  in  some  opinions,  falling  ofF; 
with  settled  government  and  canals,  with  just  taxation 
and  courts  of  appeal,  they  are  certain  to  deteriorate  in 
the  long-run.  In  the  recent  war,  say  many  good 
judges,  by  far  the  best  of  our  soldiers  were  Afridis 
fighting  against  their  own  people;  and  as  long  as  they 
stick  to  the  national  industry  of  rifle-stealing  and 
mutual  murder,  they  are  likely  to  remain  so. 

But  now — it  will  make  your  head  ache — comes 
another  dominating  height.  Will  the  Afridis  stick  to 
232 


The  Frontier  Question 

the  industries  that  foster  their  present  martial  quali- 
ties? Already  firearms  of  precision  are  so  common 
among  them  that  private  war  is  becoming  more  than 
a  joke.  With  a  jezail  it  was  a  question  of  stalking 
your  man  and  bringing  him  down  with  a  long,  long 
aim  at  500  yards.  With  a  Lee-Metford  you  sit  in 
your  tower,  and  as  soon  as  your  enemy  comes  out  to 
cut  a  cabbage  in  his  garden — bang !  you  get  him 
easily  at  1000.  Even  Afridis  will  find  life  impossible 
under  these  conditions  in  the  long-run. 

Meantime,  since  we  do  not  wish  to  exterminate  the 
Afridis,  and  it  is  poor  fun  fighting  them  on  their  own 
ground  in  their  own  style,  the  course  appears  to  be  to 
treat  them  well,  and,  if  possible,  enlist  the  whole 
nation  of  them.  Training  in  our  army  will  not  make 
them  any  more  dangerous  at  their  own  style  of  war- 
fare— they  are  perfect  at  that  already ;  if  anything  it 
will  put  them  more  on  terms  with  us.  So  far  so 
good;  but  there  are  a  thousand  little  folds  in  this 
ground  also — as  what  relations  we  are  to  maintain 
with  them  and  how,  what  we  are  to  do  for  the  safety 
of  the  Khyber  route,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  We 
might  easily  lose  ourselves  in  these — so  perhaps  we 
had  better  not  venture  in. 

At  the  back  of  everything  remains  Russia.  You 
may  reply  that  Russia  could  not  invade  India,  that 
never  were  we  on  better  terms  with  Russia,  that 
Russia  proposes  disarmament,  and  many  other  things. 
All  that — forgive  me — is  childish  nonsense.  Russia 

233 


The  Frontier  Question 

knows  quite  well  that  we  shall  not  invade  Central 
Asia,  that  the  Amir  will  not  invade  Central  Asia ;  yet 
at  this  moment  she  has  just  finished  a  railway  that 
brings  her  within  a  week  of  Herat.  If  that  road  is 
not  for  aggression,  what  is  it  for  ?  Trade  ?  Partly, 
perhaps,  but  the  trade  will  never  pay  the  working 
expenses.  For  the  sake  of  trade  it  is  even  proposed 
that  we  shall  agree  to  couple  up  our  Indian  railways 
with  Russia's  Central  Asian.  Russia  and  Germany 
link  railways  at  the  frontier,  you  say  ;  why  not  Trans- 
caspia  and  India  ?  Simply  because  Russia  and  Ger- 
many are  approximately  equal  in  military  force,  and 
are  bound  to  respect  each  other.  Our  military  force 
is  out  of  proportion  inferior  to  Russia's,  and  we  must 
redress  tfye  balance  with  every  advantage  of  position 
we  can  keep  or  take. 

Then,  what  to  do  ?  The  whole  question  turns  on 
where  you  intend  to  fight ;  though  it  is  astonishing 
how  few  people  in  India,  even  soldiers,  are  clear  on 
that  point.  Russia  could  not  invade  India  through 
Afghanistan  at  present :  difficulties  of  transport  would 
be  insuperable.  Therefore,  if  you  advance  to  the 
line  of  the  Helmund  to  meet  her — through  diffi- 
cult country  and  savage  tribes — you  are  wantonly 
throwing  away  your  only  good  card  in  the  game.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  you  elect  to  fight  along  the  border 
mountains,  Russia  can  swallow  Afghanistan  piece- 
meal. First,  she  can  establish  herself  and  accumulate 
stores,  supplies,  and  beasts  to  carry  them,  in  the  val- 
234 


The  Frontier  Question 

ley  of  Herat ;  next  in  the  valley  of  Kabul ;  then  sud- 
denly she  is  at  the  gate  of  India,  and  once  more  you 
have  discarded  your  winning  ace. 

One  more  complication :  while  we  are  fighting 
Russia  in  front,  what  would  be  happening  in  our  rear  ? 
We  must  fight  on  the  Helmund,  they  say,  because  a 
defeat  on  the  present  frontier  would  mean  revolt  in 
India.  But  a  defeat  on  the  Helmund  could  no  more 
be  hushed  up  than  a  defeat  on  the  Indus :  it  would 
only  take  a  few  hours  longer  to  reach  the  bazaars. 
But  then,  they  answer,  the  danger  is  in  letting  the 
disaffected  know  the  Russians  are  so  near.  The  reply 
is  that  if  we  were  beaten  on  the  Helmund  they  would 
very  soon  be  equally  near,  and  that  the  only  way  to 
keep  them  out  is  not  to  be  beaten  at  all.  Therefore 
we  should  fight  where  we  are  likest  to  win. 

The  best  way  out  of  the  tangle  is  to  make  it  clear 
that  the  moment  Russia  goes  to  Herat  we  fight.  We 
fight  as  best  we  can.  If  Russia  comes  straight  for 
India  we  should  beat  her;  if  not,  we  try  to  wear  her 
down  elsewhere ;  in  no  case  do  we  make  peace  till 
she  retires  to  her  old  boundary  beyond  Herat.  But 
will  the  British  people  fight  to  the  death  for  Herat, 
seeing  that  it  is  not  theirs,  and  they  do  not  know 
where  it  is  ?  Accustom  yourself  to  the  thought, 
O  British  people  !  For  in  the  long-run  it  is  a  choice 
between  this, — conscription  for  service  in  India — and 
how  would  you  like  that  ? — or  else  the  loss  of  India 
altogether. 

235 


XXVI 
OF  RAJAHS 

"  His  Highness/'  perspired  the  babu,  "  trusts  that 
you  are  in  the  enjoyment  of  good  health." 

"Thanks  to  the  beneficent  climate  of  his  High- 
ness's  dominions,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  especially  good  health." 

With  such  momentous  words  opened  my  first 
serious  interview  with  a  Rajah.  As  I  drove  up  to  his 
palace  on  the  hill  I  noticed  an  elephant  or  so  left 
casually  standing  about  at  the  corners  of  his  crooked 
streets.  This  was  his  ingenuous  way  of  hinting  to 
the  mind  of  the  stranger  at  his  rank  and  wealth  and 
importance.  An  elephant  is  a  peculiarly  royal  beast, 
as  a  peacock  is  a  royal  bird,  and  without  one,  at  least, 
of  each  no  Rajah  is  complete. 

At  the  door  of  the  stucco  palace  a  dishevelled 
sentry  presented  arms  with  even  more  than  the  usual 
fervour.  After  a  moment  I  understood — and  per- 
ceived coming  down  a  corridor  slowly,  slowly,  and 
quite  noiselessly  towards  me,  a  small  human  figure. 
It  wore  a  white  turban,  a  tabard  of  lilac  silk  lined 
with  salmon  satin,  a  long  muslin  scarf  round  the 
neck,  snow-white  linen  drawers,  tight  yet  shapeless, 
236 


Of  Rajahs 

and  white  cotton  socks.  It  came  up,  always  quite 
noiselessly,  appearing  to  be  moved  rather  than  to 
move  :  I  saw  a  brown  face,  melting  black  eyes,  a 
long-haired,  fine-haired,  oiled,  black  beard. 

The  figure  took  my  hand  in  a  hand  that  seemed 
made  of  soufflet,  and  with  the  same  mysterious,  un- 
moving  motion  led  me  across  a  high-roofed  hall,  with 
chandeliers  like  forest-trees  and  the  paint  peeling  off 
the  skirting-board,  into  a  verandah  that  overlooked  a 
reeling  chasm  of  torrent-bed  and  a  towering  heave  of 
mountain  beyond.  He  set  me  in  a  chair  beside  him, 
the  interpreter  opposite,  then  turned  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  me.  If  the  movements  were  inhuman  the 
eyes  were  unearthly.  Eyes  weary  beyond  satiety — 
eyes  utterly  passionless  and  purposeless,  as  if  their 
owner  neither  desired  anything  nor  intended  any- 
thing, had  either  never  had  any  interest  in  the  world 
or  had  quite  finished  with  it.  Looking  into  those 
black  pools  of  sheer  emptiness,  you  wondered  whether 
he  were  a  new-born  baby  or  a  million  years  old ;  you 
almost  wondered  if  he  were  alive  or  dead. 

That  was  the  Rajah.  And  then,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  fall  among  us  from  nowhere,  he  told  the 
fat-cheeked,  gold-spectacled  babu  to  tell  me  he  trusted 
I  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  good  health. 

Awhile  the  conversation  floated  at  this  level,  and  I 
began  to  think  that  this  Nirvana-eyed  Rajah  was — if 
one  may  so  speak  of  princes — a  fool.  But  presently 
the  babu's  circumambient  periods  began  to  coil  them- 

237 


Of  Rajahs 

selves  round  a  definite  subject,  and  the  Rajah  was  in- 
structing me  on  the  political  question  of  the  hour.  It 
does  not  matter  to  you  what  the  question  was ;  it  did 
not  matter  to  me.  The  interest  to  me  lay  in  com- 
paring what  the  Rajah  suggested  with  what  I  knew 
to  be  true.  In  black  and  white  he  said  nothing,  but 
he  hinted  worlds.  The  suggestions  were  so  subtly 
nebulous  that  you  could  hardly  be  sure  they  meant 
anything  at  all;  the  subject  seemed  to  be  in  the  air 
rather  than  in  his  conversation.  I  found  it  quite  im- 
possible to  speak  a  language  so  evasive,  and  had  to  fly 
to  brutal  verbs  and  nouns.  He  accepted  my  remarks, 
though  with  deprecation  of  their  bluntness ;  so  that 
at  least  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  we  were 
both  talking  about  the  same  things. 

But  the  astonishing  and  inhuman  feature  of  his 
talk  was  that  he  continually  conveyed  to  me  views  of 
the  questions  of  the  hour  which  I  knew  to  be  false, 
which  he  knew  me  to  know  to  be  false.  At  least  he 
knew  that  I  came  with  the  Resident,  and  might  have 
known  that  I  would  ask  him  about  things  and  believe 
what  he  said.  Yet,  without  the  least  encouragement, 
he  insinuated  and  insinuated  and  insinuated  away,  till 
I  felt  almost  a  traitor  to  sit  and  listen  to  him.  He 
cannot  have  thought  I  should  take  his  side,  or  that  I 
could  be  of  any  service  to  him  if  I  did ;  but  that  ap- 
peared to  matter  nothing.  Intrigue  was  his  nature, 
and  in  default  of  a  better  confederate  he  kept  his 
hand  in  by  trying  to  intrigue  with  me. 
238 


Of  Rajahs 

And  then  suddenly,  without  a  flicker  in  the  eyes  of 
either  Rajah  or  interpreter: — 

u  His  Highness  hopes  that  on  your  return  to  your 
country  you  will  write  to  him  from  time  to  time,  and 
give  him  your  advice  on  affairs  of  State." 

I  gasped.  "  His  Highness  has  heard  much  of  your 
good  name  and  high  reputation,"  pursued  the  bland, 
relentless  voice — he  had  first  heard  and  forgotten  my 
name  three  hours  before — "  and  he  is  sure  that  your 
opinion  on  the  government  of  his  country  would  be 
very  valuable  to  him." 

And  while  I  still  gasped,  his  Highness  motionlessly 
rose,  handed  me  out  of  the  chair  with  his  soufflet 
touch,  and  prattled  in  English,  "  Do  not  forget  me." 

I  shall  not  forget  him.  Nor  yet  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  the  army — a  mild  little  man  with  a  stammer, 
who  sat  on  the  extreme  edge  of  his  chair.  Nor  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  and  Lord  Chancellor — 
the  two  officers  combined  in  one  beaming  babu,  who 
told  us  how  he  intended  to  decide  cases  which  had 
not  yet  come  on  for  hearing.  Nor  the  feudal  chief,  a 
relative  of  his  Highness,  educated  in  England,  who 
wanted  to  raise  money.  "  But  you're  very  well  off, 
surely  ?  "  said  the  Resident.  "  I  regret  to  have  to 
state,  sir,  that  such  is  not  the  case,"  replied  the  de- 
scendant of  a  hundred  bandits.  The  next  function- 
ary— so  clumsy  is  destiny — complained  that  "  I  got 
plenty  pay,  sir,  not  got  no  work." 

Happy  State,  you  cry.  You  will  say  so  still  more 
239 


Of  Rajahs 

when  you  hear  that  there  are  only  two  acute  questions 
of  party  politics  at  present  before  it :  (a]  Whether  a 
certain  member  of  the  royal  family  ought  to  be  al- 
lowed to  shoot  pig,  instead  of  preserving  them  for 
sticking ;  and  (b)  Whether  a  nilghai  is  a  cow.  A 
nilghai,  as  you  know,  is  not  a  cow,  but  an  antelope ; 
it  destroys  crops,  and  the  Opposition  press  a  bill  to 
legalise  the  shooting  of  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
urges  the  Government,  it  looks  like  a  cow,  and  there 
is  a  strong  body  of  tradition  in  favour  of  regarding  it 
as  such,  and  therefore  holy.  So  the  matter  has  been 
referred  to  arbitration.  A  college  of  saints  at  Benares 
has  ruled  that  a  nilghai  is  not  a  cow  ;  but  it  is  quite 
capable  of  ruling,  on — and  for — a  sufficient  consid- 
eration, that,  though  not  a  cow,  it  is  as  it  were  a  cow. 
Meantime  party  feeling  runs  strongly — as  does  also 
the  nilghai. 

But,  indeed,  the  native  State  is,  in  its  way,  a  para- 
dise. As  long  as  the  Rajah  behaves  with  tolerable 
decency,  and  his  people  are  not  quite  outrageously 
overtaxed  or  disorderly,  he  can  do  exactly  what  he 
likes.  In  the  old  days,  if  he  shut  himself  up  with 
opium  and  nautch-girls,  a  neighbour  would  come  and 
take  his  country ;  now  the  Government  of  India  in- 
structs the  Resident  to  use  his  influence  on  the  side  of 
virtue,  and  meanwhile  sees  that  the  frontiers  stand 
fixed.  Then  his  subjects  might  rise  against  misgov- 
ernment;  if  they  did  it  now  British  troops  would 
come  in  to  uphold  him.  A  few  years  ago  the  Thakurs 
240 


Of  Rajahs 

of  Bikanir — the  feudal  nobles,  mostly  of  royal  blood — 
did  actually  set  about  to  depose  their  king  for  incom- 
petence and  exaction.  This  has  ever  been  the  Raj- 
put method  of  constitutional  government — but  the 
Sirkar  sent  a  column  to  put  the  Maharajah  back 
again. 

But  when  the  Maharajah  goes  too  far — squanders 
his  revenues,  or  hangs  his  subjects  up  by  the  toes — 
the  Sirkar  sends  him  a  Resident  with  power  to  do 
more  than  lecture  on  the  beauty  of  virtue.  The  Resi- 
dent becomes  an  administrator.  Mysore  was  gov- 
erned thus  for  over  fifty  years ;  now,  restored  to  a 
wise  Queen-mother  and  a  promising  prince,  it  is  the 
most  flourishing  native  State  in  India.  Kashmir  was 
on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy  a  few  years  ago ;  now, 
under  the  Resident  as  virtual  Prime  Minister,  with 
officers  lent  from  British  India  and  a  carefully  se- 
lected Council  of  State,  the  land  revenue  has  been  in- 
creased and  the  burden  of  taxes  decreased  simultane- 
ously, the  army  decreased  but  made  efficient,  the 
Customs  revenue  and  forest  revenue  doubled,  and 
Kashmir's  feet  are  on  the  road  of  prosperity  again. 

Of  Rajahs  there  are  very  many  kinds,  and  much 
thought  and  care  have  been  expended  on  the  theory 
and  practice  of  their  production.  The  Government 
of  India,  while  usually  leaving  them  to  themselves, 
has  made  an  exception  in  the  case  of  their  manufac- 
ture. It  is  exceptional  that  a  native  State  passes  to 
an  adult  heir — a  Rajah's  life  is  not  a  healthy  one  :  the 
241 


Of  Rajahs 

average  age  of  ruling  princes  appears  to  be  about 
seventeen — and  the  Government  of  India  educates 
the  minors.  For  young  Rajput  chiefs  there  is  the 
Mayo  College  at  Ajmir;  rulers  of  wider  influence 
usually  have  a  Governor  told  off  to  them  from  the  In- 
dian Civil  Service  or  Staff  Corps. 

The  question  is,  what  sort  of  man  you  should  aim 
at  producing.  The  old-fashioned  good  Rajah — the 
conservative,  pious  ruler,  on  good  terms  with  his  Resi- 
dent and  his  subjects  alike,  but  impartially  disliking 
champagne,  sanitation,  bookmakers,  female  education, 
and  trousers — was  perhaps  the  most  satisfactory,  cer- 
tainly the  most  dignified,  type  ;  but  he,  alas  !  though 
still  extant  here  and  there,  must  shortly  die  out. 
With  him,  as  a  compensation,  will  probably  perish  the 
old-fashioned  bad  one,  the  intriguer  and  blackmailee, 
the  tormenter  of  subjects  and  would-be  assassin  of  Resi- 
dents, who  took  greedily  to  champagne  and  bookmak- 
ers and — now  and  then — trousers,  but  hated  sanitation 
and  female  education  none  the  less.  Of  the  new  gen- 
eration the  most  familiar  type  is  the  sporting  Rajah. 
In  what  was  practically  the  final  of  this  year's  polo 
championship,  the  Patiala  and  Kotah  teams  were  each 
captained  by  the  Maharajah.  Other  young  chiefs  are 
not  less  eminent  in  the  saddle,  and  the  Maharajah  of 
Patiala  is  a  keen  and  useful  cricketer.  The  Nizam 
of  Hyderabad  is,  or  was,  almost  the  best  shot  in  the 
world.  At  his  best  the  sporting  Rajah  is  probably  the 
best  solution  of  the  difficulty  of  keeping  a  man  manly 
242 


Of  Rajahs 

when  you  deny  him  his  hereditary  pursuit  of  war.  At 
his  worst — and  there  is  a  worst — he  becomes  a  bad 
imitation  of  the  less  dignified  kind  of  sporting  peer. 

In  both  cases  it  is  hard  to  get  him  to  take  the  least 
interest  in  the  affairs  of  his  subjects.  After  all,  why 
should  he  ?  If  a  second  Akbar  were  born  in  India 
we  should  not  let  him  rule  in  his  own  way,  and  he 
would  in  that  case  rather  not  rule  at  all.  It  is  child- 
ish to  blame  the  Rajah  for  being  oriental. 

Thus  seesaw  the  native  States  of  India — over  a 
third  of  its  area,  over  a  fourth  of  its  population.  Up 
with  a  good  Rajah,  down  with  a  bad  ;  most  up  with  a 
very  bad  who  brings  in  a  British  administrator. 
Many  of  their  people  would  like  to  be  annexed  to 
British  India;  others  prefer  things  as  they  are — 
especially  everybody  even  distantly  connected  with 
the  public  service.  We  might  annex  them — there  is 
never  any  lack  of  pretext — and  we  might  leave  them 
entirely  alone  to  serve  as  awful  examples,  and  make 
our  subjects  contented  by  the  contrast.  Instead  of 
that  we  do — as  always  in  India — the  straight  and  dis- 
interested thing.  We  are  tolerant  of  the  Rajah  as 
long  as  he  is  possible,  and  succour  his  people  when  he 
is  not.  Thus — as  always  in  India — we  get  no  thanks 
from  either. 


243 


XXVII 
THE  COMPLETE  GLOBE-TROTTER 

WITHIN  the  hour  of  your  landing  India  begins 
playing  its  jokes  upon  you.  You  drive  through  piles 
of  palace  and  masses  of  palm  to  a  hotel  whose  name 
is  known  throughout  the  world.  A  Goanese  porter 
receives  you,  and  requests  you  to  inhabit  a  sort  of 
scullery  on  the  roof.  I  do  not  exaggerate  a  jot.  I 
have  seen  the  European  cell  in  a  remote  district  jail, 
and  it  was  very  appreciably  larger,  lighter,  cleaner, 
cooler,  and  more  eligibly  situated  than  the  first  room 
I  was  offered  in  an  Indian  hotel. 

As  the  first,  so  was  the  second,  and  the  third,  and 
all  of  them.  By  the  time  I  left  the  country  I  had 
been  in  almost  all  the  best  hotels  of  India.  Four, 
throughout  the  1,800,000  square  miles,  might  indul- 
gently be  called  second-class ;  all  the  rest  were  unre- 
deemedly  vile.  When  they  were  new  they  may  have 
had  the  same  pretension  to  elegance  and  comfort  as  a 
London  public  wash-house  has ;  but  by  now  they  are 
all  very  old,  and  suggest  anything  rather  than  wash- 
ing. There  can  hardly  have  been  a  depreciated  rupee 
spent  upon  the  herd  of  them.  The  walls  are  dirty, 
the  carpets  shabby,  the  furniture  rickety,  the  food  un- 
244 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

eatable,  the  management  non-existent.  The  only 
things  barely  tolerable  in  an  Indian  hotel  are  the 
personal  service  and  the  bedding,  both  of  which  you 
bring  with  you  of  your  own. 

The  apartment  in  which  I  originally  recorded  these 
opinions  was  furnished  as  follows.  A  table  with  a 
deep  crack  across  it ;  a  bedstead  with  a  mattress 
covered  with  dirty  ticking ;  a  wardrobe  papered  inside 
with  advertisements  from  the  "  Pioneer,"  now  black 
and  peeling  off  in  strips ;  two  chairs,  both  of  which 
had  holes  in  their  cane  seats,  and  creaked  and  rocked 
on  their  joints  when  you  sat  on  them ;  two  occa- 
sional tables,  both  broken-legged  and  sloping  peril- 
ously ;  and  a  decayed  hat-and-coat  rack  with  one  peg 
missing  and  two  loose.  There  was  a  sort  of  sack- 
cloth carpet,  stained,  creased,  and  littered  with  bits  of 
straw.  All  the  French  windows  were  warped  and  re- 
fused to  shut;  over  one  hung  two  wisps  of  torn  and 
coffee-coloured  lace  curtain.  The  walls  were  of  green 
distemper,  blotchy  and  coming  off;  in  the  ceiling  was 
a  cobwebbed  hole,  which  once  held  a  chandelier,  and 
now  held  vermin.  Many  squirrels  and  mice  were 
running  up  and  down  the  floor.  This  was  a  shade 
worse  than  usual,  but  only  a  shade.  All  these  things 
you  expect  in  an  Indian  hotel ;  and  at  the  touring 
season  of  the  year  you  are  lucky  if  the  swollen  babu 
in  the  office  will  let  you  in  at  all. 

And  after  all,  what  do  you  expect  ?  Why  should 
there  be  good  hotels  in  India  ?  In  Bombay,  it  is  true, 
245 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

a  really  good  hotel  is  wanted,  and  would  pay  :  they 
say  that  one  is  on  the  point  of  arriving.  Everybody 
that  comes  to  India  comes  to  Bombay,  and  nearly 
everybody  can  afford  to  pay  to  be  comfortable,  or  at 
least  clean.  There  are  always  people,  more  or  fewer, 
passing  through ;  also  many  bachelors  will  be  found 
to  live  in  a  good  hotel,  for  the  Parsis  have  cornered 
all  the  possible  bungalows.  If  you  get  custom  enough 
to  pay  a  good  European  proprietor  to  own,  and  a 
good  European  manager  to  manage,  there  is  no  reason 
on  earth  why  a  hotel  should  not  be  as  good  in  India 
as  in  Egypt. 

But  for  the  rest  of  the  country,  what  can  you  ex- 
pect ?  If  a  hotel  is  in  the  plains,  it  will  be  empty  in 
the  hot  weather ;  if  in  the  hills,  it  will  be  empty  in 
the  cold.  The  European  population  of  India  is  sparse 
and  scattered,  and  of  measureless  hospitality.  The 
white  man  sees  less  of  hotels  than  of  tents,  of  dak 
bungalows  on  lonely,  half-made  roads,  or  rest-houses 
by  lonely,  half-empty  canals.  His  work  is  always 
hanging  on  his  back,  and  will  not  let  him  travel  at 
large ;  if  he  goes  for  a  day  or  two  into  a  town,  it  is  to 
a  friend  or  to  the  club.  So  the  hotel  languishes. 
Presently  the  European  owner  sells  it  cheap  to  a 
native,  and  he  puts  in  first  a  Eurasian  manager  and 
then  a  babu ;  and  the  owner  will  not  spend  a  pie  to 
renew  the  furniture  or  new-stain  the  walls,  and  the 
manager  will  not  spend  an  hour  to  see  that  they  are 
clean.  Presently  the  place  comes  to  look  like  a 
246 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

haunted  house  crossed  upon  a  byre,  and  the  Indian 
hotel  is  complete. 

So  that  the  tourist  wallows  in  discomfort.  He  and 
she  are,  like  tourists  in  most  other  lands,  dazed  by  the 
unfamiliar  into  all-accepting  meekness.  Most  of  them 
did  not  know  where  India  was  till  they  arrived  there. 
They  carry  in  their  pocket-books  a  piece  of  paper, 
whereon  Mr.  Cook,  pitying  the  lost  sheep,  has  written 
down  the  names  of  the  places  they  are  to  go  to,  with 
the  times  of  the  trains  by  which  they  are  to  arrive 
and  leave.  They  bring  native  servants — or  is  it  that 
native  masters  bring  them  ? — who  show  them  such 
sights  as  can  be  compassed  without  walking,  and  then 
smoke  and  doze  under  the  back  verandah  of  the  hotel, 
while  their  wards  smoke  and  doze  under  the  front. 
As  a  rule  the  tourist  is  too  broken-spirited  even  to 
dress  for  dinner ;  how,  then,  should  he  complain  of  a 
hotel  ?  He  would  sleep  with  his  feet  on  the  pillow  if 
that  were  more  convenient  to  his  servant,  and  remark 
on  it  next  morning  at  breakfast  as  a  new  peculiarity 
of  Indian  life.  At  intervals  of  days  an  observation 
will  strike  a  spark  on  the  petrifaction  of  his  mind  : 
he  will  flicker  with  intelligence  and  remark,  "  What  a 
number  of  tombs  and  mosques  and  temples  there  seem 
to  be  in  this  country  ! "  If  you  counter  with  the 
suggestion  that  there  are  a  good  many  gravestones 
and  churches  and  chapels  at  home,  he  agrees ;  but 
then  that  is  a  civilised  and  highly-populated  country. 
As  for  India,  he  opines  that  the  population  must  have 
247 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

been  much  greater  in  those  days — "  those  days " 
stretch,  roughly,  from  o  to  1700  A.  D. — for  that  in 
these  days  the  country  parts  seem  quite  deserted. 
There  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  only  240,000,000 
people  "  in  the  country  parts  " — and  the  Anglo-Indian 
is  disappointed  because  the  tourist  does  not  appreciate 
his  work ! 

India,  to  put  it  summarily,  does  not  exist  for  the 
casual  stranger,  nor  yet  for  the  European  at  all,  but 
for  the  native.  You  may  say,  broadly,  that  everything 
which  only  the  European  wants  is  bad,  while  every- 
thing the  native  wants  is  good.  The  native  has  taken 
up  with  enthusiasm  the  recreation  of  railway  travelling, 
and  the  Indian  railways  are  accordingly  admirable. 
They  lack  only  one  point  of  excellence,  and  that  is 
exactly  what  the  European  wants  and  the  native  does 
not — speed.  The  white  man  is  often  in  a  hurry,  the 
native  never :  the  Indian  train  strolls  accordingly  at  a 
decorous  twenty  miles  an  hour.  The  sahib  may  get 
impatient,  but  it  is  lightning  to  people  whose  national 
conveyance  is  a  bullock-cart.  The  native  troubles 
himself  nothing  about  time-tables  :  he  goes  to  the 
station  before  sunrise  and  sits  down  till  the  train 
comes ;  and  the  amount  of  native  traffic  is  astonish- 
ing— astonishing  even  though  it  costs  him  about  a 
farthing  a  mile.  The  station-yard  and  the  road  beyond 
are  a  fair  by  day  and  a  doss-house  by  night;  at  the 
opening  of  the  gates  the  roaring,  jabbering  platform 
recalls  the  breaking  of  the  crowd  when  the  Lord 
248 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

Mayor's  Show  has  gone  by.  The  third-class  carriages 
are  even  as  crates  of  fowls :  some  stand  on  the  seats, 
some  lie  on  the  floor.  You  see  only  a  jungle  of  heads 
and  legs  and  arms  projected  vaguely  out  of  nowhere. 
At  night  the  compartment  is  a  heap  of  sack-coloured 
bundles  that  might  indifferently  be  men  or  mail-bags. 
Your  own  Indian  railway  carriage  is  not  unlike  the 
Indian  house.  It  has  space  and  all  indispensables  for 
existing  in  a  bad  climate,  but  little  of  finish  or  embel- 
lishment. In  Europe  the  sleeping-car  mimics  the 
drawing-room ;  in  India,  where  often  the  very  drawing- 
room  is  but  a  halting-place  in  a  perpetual  journey,  a 
sleeping-car  is  merely  a  car  you  can  very  well  sleep  in. 
To  it,  as  everywhere  in  India,  you  bring  your  own 
bedding  and  your  own  servant  to  lay  it  out.  You 
take  your  meals  at  stations  by  the  way ;  if  there  is  no 
refreshment-room  at  the  right  time  and  place,  you 
bring  your  food  with  you.  The  European  train  is  like 
a  hotel ;  the  Indian  like  a  camp.  Your  servant  piles 
in  your  canvas  bundle  of  bedding,  your  battered  dress- 
ing-case, your  hat-box,  your  despatch-box,  your  topi, 
your  stick,  your  flask,  your  tiffin-basket,  your  over- 
coat, your  cricket-bat,  your  racquet,  your  hunting- 
crop,  your  gun,  and  your  dog ;  you  insert  yourself 
among  them  and  away  you  go. 

The  Indian  train  may  not  be  sumptuously  capari- 
soned, but  it  is  workmanlike  to  the  uttermost  hat-peg. 
On  the  metre-gauge  lines  you  are  a  little  cramped  at 
night,   inevitably ;    on    the   broad-gauge   there   is   far 
249 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

more  dressing,  washing,  and  shaving  space  than  on 
any  line  in  Europe  or  America.  Against  the  hot 
weather  screens  of  boarding  hang  from  the  carriage 
roof  to  midway  down  the  window ;  these  stall  off 
some  of  the  dust,  while  most  of  the  windows  are 
smoked  to  cool  the  glare.  Ice  can  be  had  at 
important  stations  during  the  hot  months.  In  the 
more  civilised  parts  a  boy  with  ice  and  mineral 
waters  actually  travels  in  the  train  with  you.  As  a 
rule  there  is  a  servants'  compartment  contiguous  to 
your  own ;  on  the  South  Indian  Railway  they  have 
a  sort  of  ticket-window  through  which  you  can  bid 
him  minister  to  you.  Another  vast  convenience  is 
the  railway  waiting-room.  You  arrive,  let  us  say,  at 
six,  and  take  a  cup  of  tea ;  while  you  drink  that  a 
shave  and  a  hot  bath  are  preparing  in  the  waiting- 
room;  while  you  take  those,  breakfast  is  cooking  in 
the  kitchen.  You  go  forth  and  do  what  you  came 
for.  Then,  having  an  hour  to  spare,  you  can  sit 
down  and  minister  to  the  public  mind  from  a  better 
chair  and  table  and  room  altogether  than,  I  doubt,  you 
will  find  in  any  hotel  in  India. 

In  short,  your  Briton  is  not  at  all  the  conservative 
creature  that  at  home  he  would  make  himself  out. 
Put  him  down  where  he  has  more  or  less  of  a  clear 
field,  and  he  will  adapt  and  invent  and  contrive  and 
tolerate  the  usefully  ugly  with  the  best  of  them.  The 
small  convenience,  for  example,  of  carriages  coloured 
according  to  their  class,  now  timidly  nibbled  at  in 
250 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

England,  has  long  been  familiar  to  India :  first-class  is 
white,  second  dark  green,  third  native-colour.  Only 
one  fault  can  I  think  of  in  the  regulations  for  Indian 
travel — there  are  no  carriages  reserved  for  men.  Con- 
sequently ladies  enter  in  with  their  husbands,  which  at 
bedtime  brings  embarrassments.  Once  I  have  actually 
had  to  ask  the  stationmaster  to  put  on  an  extra  car- 
riage solely  for  me  to  hide  my  blushes  in. 

For  the  rest  you  may  look  forward  to  your  Indian 
travel  with  much  confidence.  Besides  the  train  there 
are  other  delights, — the  ferry-boat  in  the  aching  cold 
of  dawn,  the  row-boat  on  the  racing  canal,  the  ekka 
over  dust-ruts,  the  tonga  and  trotting  bullocks  on  a 
metalled  road,  the  tonga  and  hill-pony  over  precipices, 
the  double-saddled  camel  over  sand-drifts,  the  elephant 
over  everything  that  comes  in  the  way.  The  tonga 
is  a  low,  two-wheeled  dachsund  of  a  cart,  with  the 
build  of  a  gun-carriage,  wherein  you  wedge  yourself 
between  back  seat  and  tail-board  and  travel  among 
the  hills,  with  good  ponies  and  luck,  at  an  average  of 
eight  miles  or  so  an  hour.  It  is  better  sport  than  an 
automobile,  as  the  ponies  are  seldom  broken,  and 
sometimes  have  to  be  hauled  into  the  desired  course 
with  a  whip-thong  twisted  round  the  car  and  then 
prevented  from  flinging  the  whole  thing  over  a  cliff 
if  Allah  so  wills.  The  ekka — which  is  for  natives 
only — is  a  painted  ice-cream  barrow  with  an  awning 
above  it  and  a  pony  before.  The  elephant — well, 
you  may  have  seen  him,  and  though  for  my  own  part 
251 


The  Complete  Globe-Trotter 

I  never  considered  him  as  a  serious  beast  till  I  knew 
him  personally  in  India,  you  have  already  heard  the 
little  I  know  on  that  subject. 

As  I  was  saying,  you  will  enjoy  your  travelling  in 
India,  if  you  have  so  many  friends  there  that  you 
never  need  put  foot  in  a  hotel.  If  you  have  not,  you 
had  much  better  go  somewhere  else,  and  leave  India 
to  worry  through  by  itself. 


252 


XXVIII 
THE  HAPPY  HOMES  OF  INDIA 

ONE  letter  of  introduction,  discreetly  managed, 
will  furnish  you  with  lodging,  board,  drinks,  fire, 
mounts,  shooting,  fishing,  carriages,  servants,  books, 
flowers,  and  clothes  from  one  end  of  India  to  the 
other. 

I  never  heard  of  anybody  who  was  shameless 
enough  to  do  it — I  did  hear  of  two  Frenchmen  who 
went  forty  days  on  the  strength  of  letters  from  a 
native  prince  neither  of  them  knew — but  I  am  certain 
that,  discreetly  managed,  it  could  be  done.  It  would 
be  better,  though  not  absolutely  necessary,  to  have  a 
suit  of  clothes  to  start  in,  and  it  is  not  usual  for 
your  host  in  giving  you  his  introduction  to  your  next 
host  to  add  a  railway  ticket.  Short  of  that,  Indian 
hospitality  is  limitless. 

You  get  out  at  the  station  and  find  a  bearded 
Mussulman  salaaming  over  a  letter.  The  letter  in- 
forms you  that  the  bearer  will  do  everything — and  he 
does.  He  puts  you  into  a  carriage,  and  an  attendant 
or  two  he  has  brought  with  him,  after  a  short,  shrill 
controversy  with  your^wn  servant,  grapple  with  your 
luggage.  On  the  easiest  of  springs  and  cushions  you 
253 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

roll  along  broad,  straight  roads,  arcaded  with  trees, 
the  dust  carefully  laid  by  half-naked  watermen  sluicing 
out  water  through  the  necks  of  the  goatskins  on  their 
backs.  From  time  to  time  you  pass  gateways ;  but, 
unless  it  is  evening  and  lamps  are  lit,  you  can  only 
guess  that  there  are  houses  behind  the  trees.  Pres- 
ently you  swing  through  one  of  these :  there  appears  a 
broad  house,  too  high,  it  seems,  for  one  storey,  too 
low  for  two,  with  pillared  front,  verandahs  on  all 
sides,  and  a  porte-cochere.  They  take  you  to  a  vast 
bedroom  as  lofty  as  the  big  saloons  of  a  grand  hotel, 
laid  with  matting  and  rugs,  with  at  least  one  long, 
cane-seated  lounge-chair  with  forward-jutting  arms 
that  will  serve  indifferently  as  table  or  leg-rest.  In 
the  matted  bathroom  adjoining  your  hot  water  is 
waiting  for  you.  A  servant,  or  two,  or  six,  will 
hasten  at  your  command,  while  your  own  bearer  is 
struggling  up  with  the  luggage,  and  bring  you  any- 
thing you  may  be  pleased  to  desire  from  a  newspaper 
to  a  joint  of  mutton. 

Next  morning  you  find  that  the  house  stands  in  a 
compound  :  even  Government  offices  and  banks  and 
shops  possess  it.  It  is  a  large  walled  or  hedged  en- 
closure, part  garden,  part  mews,  part  village.  The 
Indian  garden  is  almost  the  most  pathetic  thing  in  a 
whole  land  of  exile.  In  the  morning  the  bullocks 
will  be  hauling  at  the  creaking  well,  and  all  the  little 
baked  squares  of  light  grit  wallow  under  water.  The 
native  trees  and  shrubs  and  plants — huge  leaves, 
254 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

garish  petals,  heavy  perfumes — flourish  rankly.  But 
the  poor  little  home  flowers — the  stocks  and  mignon- 
ette and  wallflowers  !  They  struggle  so  gallantly  to 
pretend  that  they  are  happy,  to  persuade  you  that  this 
is  not  so  very  far  from  England ;  and  they  fail  so 
piteously.  They  will  flower  in  abundant  but  strag- 
gling blossoms ;  but  the  fierce  sun  withers  the  first 
before  the  next  have  more  than  budded.  They  make 
no  foliage,  and  they  are  drawn  into  leggy  stalks,  all 
out  of  shape.  It  is  a  loving  fraud,  but  a  hollow  one. 
The  very  wallflowers  cannot  be  more  than  exiles. 

In  the  mews,  past  the  big  carriage  Walers,  the 
Arab  hacks  and  polo  ponies  thrust  trusting  heads 
over  bars  in  hopes  of  carrots,  or  pluck  impatiently  at 
their  heel-ropes.  Then  there  is  the  village — a  whole 
village  of  servants  in  every  compound.  The  prin- 
ciple of  division  of  labour,  of  one  man  one  job,  has 
been  taken  up  by  the  Indian  servant  with  a  grasp  and 
thoroughness  that  would  move  the  despairing  envy  of 
a  modern  trade-unionist.  Every  kind  of  work  re- 
quires its  special  man,  so  that  a  normal  Indian  house- 
hold is  something  like  the  following.  The  sahib's 
bearer  or  valet,  i ;  the  memsahib's  ayah,  or  maid,  2 ; 
the  khansamah,  or  head  cook  and  caterer,  3 ;  the 
cook's  two  mates  and  the  scullery-boy,  6  ;  the  khit- 
magars,  or  table-servants,  8 ;  the  tailor,  9 ;  the  dhobi, 
or  washer-man,  10 ;  the  bhisti,  or  water-carrier, 
II ;  the  sweeper,  12 ;  the  gardeners,  15  ;  the  syces,  or 
grooms,  19 ;  the  grass-cutters — for  in  Indian  not  only 
255 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

must  you  have  a  groom  to  each  horse,  but  a  grass- 
cutter  to  each  groom — 23.  Some  add  a  dog-boy,  but 
that  savours  of  luxurious  ostentation ;  as  a  rule,  the 
sweeper  will  kindly  consent  to  fill  up  some  of  his 
leisure  with  the  care  of  dogs. 

But  that  is  not  all,  or  nearly  all.  If  the  sahib  is  in 
Government  service,  you  must  add  from  one  to  three 
munshis,  or  clerks,  and  from  two  to  four  chaprassis. 
These  are  a  kind  of  cross  between  messengers  and 
lictors  :  their  scarlet  coats  and  sashes  are  symbols  of 
the  presence  of  the  Sirkar.  A  small  man  may  have 
no  more  than  two ;  a  Lieutenant-Governor  will  have 
four  tongas  full,  and  a  Viceroy,  I  infer,  a  special  train- 
ful.  How  many  red  chaprassis  there  must  be  in  the 
whole  of  India  it  beggars  statistics  to  compute.  That 
brings  us  up  to  a  household  of  thirty.  If  the  sahib  is 
in  camp,  as  nearly  everybody  in  India  is  for  a  part  of 
the  year,  he  will  probably  have  a  double  set  of  tents, 
of  which  one  goes  on  by  day  to  be  ready  for  him  next 
morning.  That  means  an  extra  bhisti  and  an  extra 
sweeper,  say  a  dozen  tent-pitchers,  and  the  same  num- 
ber of  camel-  or  bullock-drivers.  Grand  total,  fifty- 
six  persons  to  attend  on  one  married  couple. 

Arrogant  satrap  !  you  cry.  But  it  is  not  the  sa- 
trap's fault.  On  the  contrary,  his  household  is  the 
curse  of  his  life  and  of  his  memsahib's.  As  each 
servant  takes  a  new  wife,  he  wants  space  in  the  com- 
pound to  run  up  a  wicker-screen  round  her;  hence, 
and  from  other  sources,  perpetual  quarrels.  Perhaps 
256 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

the  sahib,  as  yet  unbroken,  desires  to  have  half  as 
many  servants  with  double  the. work  and  double  the 
pay.  He  may  argue  and  beseech  and  swear:  he 
might  as  well  hold  a  public  disputation  with  a  bullock- 
team.  The  servant  prostrates  himself  and  says,  "  O 
Presence,  it  is  not  the  custom." 

If  you  question  the  memsahib  of  the  ordering  of  her 
household,  you  will  find  that  she  knows  very  little 
about  it.  She  knows  that  the  bearer  is  supposed  to 
dust  the  drawing-room  and  does  not,  and  that  the 
khansamah  presents  a  monthly  account.  This  ac- 
count is  almost  the  most  wondrous  thing  in  India.  A 
khansamah  who  knows  his  business  fits  it  to  the 
sahib's  income  with  undeviating  precision.  Servants 
at  home  know  everything ;  in  India  they  know  yet 
more.  The  quiet  men  who  wait  at  table  know  more 
English  than  they  pretend  ;  usually  there  is  somebody 
in  the  house  who  can  read  English  letters.  Anglo- 
Indian  life  is  all  under  verandahs,  behind  open  win- 
dows, transparent  blinds,  and  doors  that  will  not  shut. 
Also  every  servant  knows  every  other  servant,  as  well 
as  the  clerks  at  the  bank  and  in  the  Government 
offices;  therefore  a  man  will  first  hear  of  his  impend- 
ing promotion  or  transfer  from  his  bearer.  And  when 
he  is  promoted,  his  wife,  hoping  to  save  money  to  eke 
out  the  ever-nearer  retirement  pension,  will  discover 
that  the  expenses  have  risen  in  exact  proportion  to 
the  rise  of  pay.  "The  Presence  has  more  pay 
now,"  says  the  virtuous  khansamah.  "  Does  it  be- 
257 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

come  the  Presence  to  live  like  a  mere  assistant-com- 
missioner ?  I  have  seen  many  sahibs,  and  I  know 
what  is  fitting." 

Where  does  it  go  to  ?  Do  not  ask,  but  count  from 
time  to  time  the  bangles  on  the  ankles  of  the  khan- 
samah's  leading  wife.  You  will  notice  that  they  en- 
large and  multiply.  The  word  for  this  process  is 
dastur ;  in  French  it  is  spelt  mes  sous,  and  in  English 
"  housekeeper's  discount."  You  may  say  confidently 
that  no  money  changes  hands  between  the  sahib  and  a 
native  without  it  has  borne  commission.  "  What  is 
the  price  in  the  bazaar  of  a  tin  pail  ?  "  the  memsahib 
asks  of  a  chaprassi.  "  God  knows.  I  am  a  poor 
man.  Yet  by  making  inquiries  it  can  be  known." 
So  he  disappears  round  the  corner,  where  waits  the 
pail  merchant,  and  by  making  inquiries  it  is  known. 
Every  man  has  his  pice. 

But  if  the  rich  man's  expenses  increase  with  his 
pay,  the  poor  man's  remain  steady.  The  pinched 
married  subaltern  gets  exactly  the  same  food  and 
servants  and  everything  else  as  the  plump  commis- 
sioner. The  Indian  servant  may  be  a  tyrant,  but  he 
is  also  a  providence.  He  asks  no  more  than  your 
all :  give  him  that  honestly,  and  he  will  see  that  you 
want  for  nothing.  His  honour  is  in  his  sahib  and 
his  sahib's  establishment.  It  is  his  pride  that  he 
never  steals  contrary  to  custom :  he  will  take  half  a 
farthing  commission  on  the  expenditure  of  2d.,  but  he 
is  safe  as  the  grave  with  your  whole  month's  pay  in 
258 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

his  pocket.  When  the  exile  is  over,  and  the  sahib 
returns  across  the  black  water,  the  bearer  weeps  quite 
sincerely.  "  Behold  I  am  grown  old  in  the  service  of 
the  Presence.  The  Presence  is  my  father  and  mother : 
what  now  shall  this  dust-like  one  do  ?  "  Then  one 
day,  in  the  riced-and-buttered  ease  of  his  native 
village,  he  hears  that  his  old  master's  son  is  on  the 
way  to  India.  God  knows  how,  but  he  hears  it. 
And  when  the  boy  lands  at  Bombay,  an  old  man 
creeps  up  to  him  bearing  a  chit  from  his  father.  "  Be- 
hold it  would  be  a  shame  to  me  if  any  but  me  should 
be  the  Presence's  bearer,  seeing  that  I  have  many 
times  held  him  on  my  knee  when  he  was  so  high." 
So  he  is  the  Presence's  bearer.  The  old  man,  who 
had  retired  rich  for  life  from  a  general's  establishment, 
begins  again  in  a  subaltern's  quarters  and  serves  the 
young  sahib  till  his  infirmities  will  let  him  serve  no 
longer.  Then  he  goes  back  to  his  village  again  with 
a  pension,  and  sends  his  son  to  serve  the  Presence  in- 
stead. 

The  bearer  and  khansamah  may  well  take  loads 
on  themselves,  for  there  are  agonies  in  Indian  house- 
keeping which  must  fall  on  the  memsahib  alone. 
How  would  you  like  to  do  your  shopping  at  a  thou- 
sand miles'  range  ?  Except  in  Madras,  Bombay,  and 
Calcutta  there  is  hardly  a  possible  shop  in  India. 
You  must  think  what  you  want,  and  order  it  a  fort- 
night in  advance ;  even  so,  it  will  probably  arrive 
a  fortnight  late.  And  then,  if  people  are  coming  to 
259 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

stay  over  Christmas.  ...  I  have  heard  of  a 
Resident's  wife  who  had  to  send  two  hundred  miles 
for  a  flock  of  sheep  for  the  needs  of  her  house-party, 
and  then  the  local  Brahmans  intercepted  them  and  put 
them  in  the  pound  ;  and  religion  ordains  that  what 
has  once  been  in  the  pound  can  never  be  slaughtered. 

There  are  other  sorrows.  Go  into  the  Indian 
drawing-room  :  it  is  shady  and  cool  and  charming, 
but  nearly  always  it  seems  a  little  bare.  The  rest  of 
the  furniture — the  pretty  nothings — are  packed  in 
boxes  at  depots  in  Calcutta  or  Bombay  or  Pindi. 
The  piano  is  staying  with  a  friend,  and  the  silver  has 
not  yet  come  back  from  the  bank.  Leave  one  year 
and  transfer  the  next,  camp  next  month,  and  an  im- 
perative change  to  the  hills  for  the  memsahib  the  hot 
weather  after  that — the  Indian  house  is  ever  a  place 
of  transition.  It  is  a  mere  caravanserai — a  double 
exile.  The  Anglo-Indian  has  not  even  a  fixed  place 
of  banishment.  It  is  not  enough  that  the  mother 
must  send  away  her  children  :  she  may  not  even  live 
with  her  furniture. 

In  this  fugitive  encampment  on  alien  soil  the  very 
order  of  meals  is  shaken.  When  it  is  hot  you  rise 
before  dawn  and  take  your  cbota  hazri  of  tea  and 
toast.  Then  for  your  ride,  your  bicycle  spin,  your 
game  of  racquets  in  the  first  hours  of  the  sun.  Then 
home  to  dress,  and  then  breakfast,  and  then  a  day's 
work  through  the  long,  long  heat  and  glare.  Tiffin 
you  have  no  stomach  for,  and  so  you  wait  for  tea. 
260 


The  Happy  Homes  of  India 

After  that  life  is  bearable  again  :  there  is  air  if  you 
only  gasp  hard  enough.  There  is  the  drive  by  the 
Hughli  at  Calcutta,  on  the  shore  of  Back  Bay  at  Bom- 
bay, on  the  Marina  at  Madras.  Then  for  men  the 
club :  in  smaller  stations  the  club  is  free  to  women 
also.  All  prepare  for  dinner  with  billiards  or  bad- 
minton, which  is  battledore  and  shuttlecock  over  a 
net.  Then  dinner  under  the  punkah ;  or  maybe  it  is 
dance  night,  and  everybody  forgets  hot  to-day  and 
hotter  to-morrow  and  the  whole  weary  year. 

Sunday  brings  little  respite.  Man  has  his  week's 
arrears  of  work.  For  woman,  if  she  cares,  there  is 
church  at  the  big  station  ;  and  in  the  small  the  little 
Scotch  missionary,  or  the  Resident,  or  the  Deputy- 
Commissioner  reading  the  service  in  a  drawing-room 
to  his  wife  and  his  assistant  and  the  engineer's  wife 
— the  engineer  is  out  on  the  canal,  and  the  doctor  is 
a  native — the  railway-man  and  his  wife  and  his 
children.  It  does  your  heart  good  to  see  how  the 
missionary  enjoys  his  sermon — the  one  taste  of  theo- 
logical Scotland  in  his  week  of  stupid  scholars  and 
stupider  patients ;  it  does  you  good  to  hear  the  rail- 
way-man growl  out  the  hymns  of  his  childhood. 

There  is  one  day  yet  more  sacred  than  Sunday — 
mail-day.  Nobody  makes  calls  that  day :  nobody  is 
to  be  seen ;  next  day  is  a  sort  of  lazy  holiday. 
Everybody  hates  mail-day,  they  tell  you ;  nobody 
misses  it.  Across  five  thousand  miles.  .  . 
Still  it  is  something. 

261 


XXIX 
THE  CASE  OF  REBELLIOUS  POONA 

BALKRISHNA,  Wasudeo,  and  Ranade  lie  in  the  cen- 
tral jail,  two  miles  out  of  Poona.  This  is  in  June, 
and  they  have  been  there  since  early  March  ;  some 
day  between  now  and  the  reading  of  these  pages  they 
will  have  been  hanged  by  the  neck  until  they  were 
dead. 

They  are  the  last — some  think;  others  think  not 
the  last — of  the  gang  which  on  Jubilee  night  in  1897, 
headed  by  their  elder  brother,  Damodher,  murdered 
Mr.  Rand  and  Lieutenant  Ayerst.  Since  then  two 
of  the  witnesses  against  Damodher,  who  was  hanged, 
have  been  murdered ;  attempts  have  been  made  on 
others ;  and  Wasudeo — aged  seventeen,  and  a  student, 
if  I  mistake  not,  at  the  same  college  which  educated 
this  year's  Senior  Wrangler — crowned  his  career  by 
firing  a  pistol  at  the  magistrate  in  open  court.  These 
crimes,  added  to  trials  for  seditious  writing  and  speech, 
such  as  those  of  Tilak  and  the  brothers  Natu,  to  diffi- 
culties between  soldiers  and  people  over  plague  work, 
and  to  reckless  calumnies  about  the  behaviour  of  Brit- 
ish soldiers  at  that  time,  have  given  Poona  the  most 
262 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

evil  reputation  in  India.  Here  is  one  centre  in  India 
which  seems  thoroughly  and  irreconcilably  disaffected. 
A  Poona  Brahman  is  the  type  all  over  India  of  ser- 
pentine cunning  and  malignancy.  "  Poona  was  al- 
ways a  nasty  place,"  I  remember  hearing  an  old 
engine-driver  say  years  ago,  when  I  hardly  knew 
where  Poona  was.  "  It  seemed  different  from  other 
places,  somehow.  You  didn't  know  what  those  chaps 
were  up  to.  You  didn't  quite  know  where  it  was, 
but  there  it  was.  It  was  a  nasty  place."  That  sums 
up  the  general  opinion  about  Poona  with  most  accu- 
rate vagueness.  Nobody  quite  knows  what  it  is,  but 
everybody  is  quite  sure  it  is  something.  So  Poona 
has  a  bad  name,  and  from  time  to  time  bits  of  it  are 
hanged. 

There  ought,  you  feel,  to  be  some  definite  and 
tangible  reason.  But  if  there  is  I  do  not  know  it ; 
and,  though  I  have  sought,  I  have  not  met  the  Euro- 
pean or  the  native  that  can  tell  it  me.  Except  for 
the  murders,  and  the  obviously  widespread  sympathy 
which  permitted  and  screened  them,  Poona  seems  to 
have  done  no  wrong  beyond  Calcutta  or  Lahore ;  ex- 
cept for  the  fine  imposed  by  the  quartering  of  extra 
troops  on  it  after  the  murders,  Poona  seems  to  have 
suffered  nothing  beyond  Bombay  or  Madras.  Yet, 
when  you  leave  searching  for  specific  causes  and  fall 
back  on  general  grounds  of  discontent,  the  case  be- 
comes plainer.  Poona  is  the  ancient  capital  of  the 
Marathas,  and  there  are  a  score  of  reasons  why  the 
263 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

Marathas  should  chafe  under  British  rule  more  than 
any  other  people  of  India. 

We  must  go  back,  after  the  fashion  of  the  official 
reports,  to  the  days  of  Aurungzebe.  You  must  bear 
in  mind  that  it  was  from  the  Marathas  and  the  Sikhs, 
from  Hindus  not  from  Mussulmans,  that  we  actually 
conquered  India.  At  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth 
century  the  Mogul  empire  began  to  fall  to  pieces  with 
the  death  of  Aurungzebe.  The  Marathas  and  Sikhs 
were  the  Hindu  reaction.  Spreading  from  Western 
India,  the  Marathas  overran  the  whole  peninsula  from 
the  Punjab  to  Bengal.  They  made  the  Emperor  of 
Delhi  their  prisoner,  and  governed  and  raided  in  his 
name ;  Maratha  chiefs  founded  the  dynasties  of  Scin- 
dia,  Holkar,  and  Baroda;  but  the  head  of  their  con- 
federacy was  always  the  Peshwa  of  Poona.  In  1789 
they  captured  Delhi  itself.  According  to  the  ordinary 
run  of  India's  history  they  would  in  due  time  have 
been  subjugated  by  some  hardier  race  from  the  north. 
But  the  Sikhs  formed  a  temporary  barrier  against  the 
Mussulman  hordes ;  and  the  death-blow  of  the  Mara- 
thas therefore  came  from  the  other  side — from  the  sea 
and  the  British.  In  two  desperate  wars,  not  unshad- 
owed by  British  defeats,  they  lost,  first  Delhi  in  1803, 
and  then,  fifteen  years  later,  Poona  itself.  After  about 
a  century  of  rule  the  Maratha  empire  collapsed  as 
swiftly  as  it  had  risen. 

Other  provinces  of  India  were  ceded  to  us  or  con- 
quered from  alien  lords  ;  the  Marathas  lost  their  all  in 
264 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

war.  So,  later,  did  the  Sikhs ;  but  while  the  Sikhs 
have  long  since  reconciled  themselves  to  our  dominion, 
the  Marathas  have  never  forgotten  how  high  they 
were  less  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  who  it  was 
that  brought  them  low.  They  lost  more  than  others, 
and  they  feel  the  loss  more.  For  others  we  were  a 
change  of  masters ;  them  we  brought  down  from 
masters  to  slaves. 

The  case  of  the  Marathas  offers  an  unhappy  and 
unique  combination  of  everything  that  can  embitter 
subjection.  They  were  gallant  warriors,  if  wanting 
stamina ;  they  were  also  patriots,  devotees,  and  a  peo- 
ple of  an  extraordinary  acuteness  of  intellect.  The 
Rohillas,  whom  we  conquered,  were  as  gallant  war- 
riors ;  but  they  were  adventurers,  not  a  nation.  The 
Ghurkhas,  from  whom  we  captured  provinces,  were 
both  gallant  and  patriotic ;  but  they  were  careless  of 
religion,  while  to  the  straitly  Hindu  Marathas  the 
very  existence  of  British  rule  is  a  compulsion  to  daily 
impiety.  The  Sikh  is  brave,  patriotic,  and  religious; 
but  he  is  simple  and  unlettered,  and  easily  forgets  a 
beating  in  the  satisfaction  of  having  fought  a  good 
fight.  The  Maratha,  more  introspective,  hugs  the 
smart  of  defeat.  The  Bengali  vaunts  as  acute  a  mind 
— at  least  until  it  comes  to  action, — but  he  has  for- 
gotten what  it  is  to  be  free.  Each  has  his  compensa- 
tion, except  the  Maratha.  His  empire,  his  nationality, 
his  religion,  his  honour,  his  beautiful  language — we 
have  taken  away  his  all. 

265 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

It  is  not  our  fault.  Some  of  his  complaints  are 
even  grotesquely  self-destructive.  For  example,  he 
seizes  greedily  on  English  education  to  fit  himself  for 
political  and  journalistic  attacks  upon  us,  and  in  elabo- 
rate Macaulayesque  periods  complains  that  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  is  killing  the  Marathi.  Another  of  the 
Brahman's  grievances  is  that  he  is  poor ;  yet  when  he 
gets  a  Government  post  that  would  be  great  wealth 
for  one,  he  divides  it  into  pittances  for  a  score  of 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  uncles  and  aunts,  and  second- 
cousins,  who  all  come  to  live  in  his  house.  This  is 
his  religion,  and  it  is  a  most  unselfish  one  ;  but  it  is 
his  doing,  not  ours.  Yet  with  all  their  illogic  his  com- 
plaints are  sincere.  The  Maratha  really  does  think 
himself  most  ill-used.  He  seems  to  bear  a  vinegar 
disposition  on  his  very  features.  The  type  is  very 
well  marked  as  you  meet  it  on  descending  from  the 
north — a  shaven  head  that  looks  small  and  square 
under  its  peony  turban ;  a  skin  so  darkly  brown  that 
it  almost  amounts  to  a  scowl  in  itself;  brows  that 
press  down  on  the  gleaming  eyes  in  a  perpetual  frown ; 
a  small,  rather  formless  nose,  often  almost  snub  ;  a 
black  or  grey  moustache  that  turns  down  stiffly  over 
the  corners  of  a  tight-drawn  mouth, — a  face  full  of 
character,  but  of  bad  character.  The  harsh  brows 
and  precise  moustache  convey  somehow  a  look  of 
sour  self-righteousness.  The  Maratha  looks  as  if  he 
were  ever  brooding  over  wrongs  most  undeserved. 
*l  These  people,"  he  is  saying,  "  will  all  be  damned 
266 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

when  I  am  in  heaven ;  and   yet   they  rule  me,  and   I 
cannot  shake  them  off." 

That  at  least  is  certain :  he  cannot  shake  us  off. 
The  Government  of  India  had  a  bad  turn  of  nervous- 
ness after  the  Jubilee  murders ;  but  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  there  will  never  be  another  Indian  Mutiny  with- 
out aid  from  outside  ;  and  if  there  were,  it  would  not 
be  the  Marathas  who  could  profit  by  it.  Failing  that, 
their  discontent  finds  its  vent  in  what  a  Brahman  I 
consulted  on  the  subject  called  "  a  vague  feeling  of 
unrest — with  undercurrents."  He  himself  was  of  the 
moderate  party  who  favour  reforms  in  Hinduism  and 
constitutional  methods  of  political  agitation — agitation 
for  what,  they  have  not  yet  quite  settled.  The  ex- 
tremists— such  as  the  now  notorious  Tilak — are  the 
undercurrents.  They  find  a  vent  for  their  vague  feel- 
ing of  unrest  in  kindling  religious  animosities  among 
the  common  people.  The  common  people,  of  course, 
have  long  ceased  to  sigh  for  the  glories  of  Shivaji, 
hero  and  traitor,  or  for  the  great  days  of  raid  and  em- 
pire :  it  was  not  they,  we  may  conjecture,  who  got 
the  best  of  the  loot.  But  they  cling  like  limpets  to 
their  religion.  Compared  with  Orientals,  we  Western 
people  do  not  know  what  religion  is :  Hinduism  pre- 
scribes and  enters  into  every  single  act  in  the  lives  of 
those  who  profess  it.  It  tells  them  what  to  eat,  what 
to  drink,  wherewithal  to  be  clothed,  whom  to  marry, 
whom  not  to  touch  with  so  much  as  their  shadows. 
You  may  call  it  unspiritual — religion  fossilised  into 
267 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

unmeaning,  stupid  custom — yet  it  is  their  all,  and  they 
prize  it  beyond  life.  The  Hindu,  in  a  sense  which 
the  West  cannot  even  comprehend,  does  all  things  to 
the  glory — or  the  reverse — of  God. 

Now  a  simple  thing  like  travelling  in  a  tramcar  is 
quite  sufficient  to  defile  a  Hindu,  if  a  defiling  person 
happens  also  to  be  in  that  tramcar.  Therefore  you 
will  see  that  the  kind  of  improvements  we  have  intro- 
duced into  India  are  fertile  of  religious  offence,  and 
might  in  the  long-run  be  fatal  to  Hinduism  in  its  tra- 
ditional form.  That  is  why  the  better  kind  of  Brah- 
man favours  a  modification  of  the  creed — it  is  really 
a  life  rather  than  a  creed — and  the  worse  sees  his 
opportunity  in  doing  all  he  can  to  keep  it  as  rigid  and 
formal  as  possible.  A  short  while  ago,  for  example, 
a  quarrel  occurred  in  Poona  between  Hindus  and 
Mussulmans.  In  other  parts  of  India  Hindu  proces- 
sions are  not  allowed  to  pass  mosques  with  cymbals 
and  tom-toms  during  the  festival  of  the  Moharram. 
In  Poona  it  had  not  hitherto  been  forbidden.  But 
now  the  Mussulmans  applied  for  its  prohibition,  and, 
in  accord  with  the  usage  of  other  cities,  jingling  and 
tom-tomming  was  prohibited  during  that  explosive 
and  fanatical  time.  Thereon  Tilak  and  his  friends 
must  get  up  a  sort  of  Moharram  of  their  own — a 
Hindu  festival  very  similar  to  the  Moslem  one,  except 
that  it  has  no  history  and  no  meaning. 

It  happened  not  to  matter,  and  now  both  sects  join 
without  prejudice  in  each  other's  tom-toming,  as  be- 
268 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

fore  the  quarrel.  As  usual,  nobody  suffered  but  the 
doubly-deafened  European.  Yet  this  illustrates  the 
attitude  of  the  extreme  Brahmans.  Their  game  is  to 
load  the  overloaded  religion  with  more  and  more 
meaningless  observances,  in  the  hope  that  they  may 
somehow  one  day  lead  to  strife.  To  such  the  out- 
break of  plague  in  1897  an^  tne  employment  of  Brit- 
ish troops  on  house-to-house  examination  was  a 
golden  chance.  The  use  of  them  may  or  may  not 
have  been  wise.  A  knowledge  of  the  Marathi  lan- 
guage and  of  Hindu  domestic  ceremonial  is  not  among 
the  accomplishments  for  which  we  pay  Atkins  a  shil- 
ling a-day,  and  he  may  have  been  wanting  in  tact.  He 
generally  lives  away  in  cantonments,  and  his  appear- 
ance in  force  in  the  native  city  was  by  itself  disquiet- 
ing to  the  timid  coolie.  On  the  other  hand,  some- 
body had  to  do  the  work,  and  with  sanitary  work 
even  the  most  Europeanised  native  is  hardly  ever  to 
be  trusted. 

If  the  Brahmans  had  been  honestly  desirous  of 
doing  good  to  the  people  they  would  have  volun- 
teered to  go  round  with  the  soldiers  and  keep  them 
from  unconscious  offence.  Some  of  them,  to  their 
great  credit  and  to  everybody's  satisfaction,  have  since 
done  this.  But  at  the  first  they  preferred  to  let  the 
public  health  go  hang,  and  make  mischief,  wherein 
they  succeeded  richly. 

But  it  seems  that  the  worst  of  it  is  over  now. 
Balkrishna,  Wasudeo,  and  Ranade  will  be  hanged  by 
269 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

the  neck  until  they  are  dead.  There  is  an  idea  that 
the  murderers  of  Rand  and  Ayerst  were  only  the  in- 
struments of  a  more  powerful  backer — somebody  who 
furnished  money  and  ideas,  but  not  his  carcass.  But 
those  who  know  best  think  that  though  there  was 
much  sympathy  with  them — though  they  went  to 
people  and  said,  "  We  are  going  to  kill  a  sahib,"  and 
they  only  replied,  "  Isn't  it  a  bit  dangerous  ?  " — they 
are  the  last  of  the  gang.  To  be  sure,  Tilak's  paper 
called  them  brave  and  unselfish  youths ;  but  he  is  the 
kind  of  man  that  prefers  hallooing  capital  crimes 
from  a  distance  to  putting  himself  inside  the  meshes 
of  the  law.  The  Maratha  Brahman,  for  a  native  of 
India,  seems  singularly  unwilling  to  die.  A  simple 
ryot,  the  other  day,  had  said  good-bye  to  his  relatives, 
and  was  pinioned,  when  suddenly  he  asked  to  speak 
again  to  his  brother.  "  Recollect,"  he  said,  "  it's 
twenty  Kawa  seers  of  barley  that  man  owes  me.  Not 
Dawa  seers  " — as  you  might  say  imperial  pints,  not 
reputed.  Then  he  turned  and  was  hanged  without 
moving  a  muscle.  Another  man,  a  Pathan,  was  be- 
ing hanged,  when  the  rope  broke.  The  warder  bade 
him  go  up  on  to  the  scaffold  again,  but  he  objected. 
"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  I  was  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  and 
hanged  I've  been."  "Not  so,  friend,"  argued  the 
warder ;  "  you  were  sentenced  to  be  hanged  until  you 
were  dead,  and  you're  not  dead."  It  was  a  new  view 
to  the  Pathan,  and  he  turned  to  the  superintendent, 
"  Is  that  right,  Sahib  ?  "  "  Yes,  that's  right."  "  Very 
270 


The  Case  of  Rebellious  Poona 

well ;  I  didn't  understand  ;  "  and  he  went  composedly 
up  the  steps  and  was  hanged  again  like  a  man.  But 
it  seems  that  the  Brahman,  being  a  more  complex 
creature,  does  not  match  this  superb  indifference. 
When  Damodher  saw  the  black-railed  scaffold  his 
knees  were  loosened ;  when  they  came  to  fit  the 
noose  he  collapsed  in  a  heap,  and  had  to  be  supported 
into  heaven  like  a  coward.  His  three  followers  re- 
ceived their  sentence  with  bravado,  but  now  behind 
the  bars  they  were  beginning  to  go  the  way  Damodher 
went.  So  that  it  appears  likely  that  the  punishment 
of  this  gang  will  prove  an  effective  deterrent  against 
any  attempts  to  imitate  or  avenge  them. 

For  the  rest,  plague  looks  like  becoming  a  regular 
cold-weather  visitor  to  Poona.  The  hot-weather  sun 
killed  it  this  spring ;  but  the  odds  are  it  will  recur. 
In  any  case,  the  able  officers  recently  in  charge  of 
the  segregations  have  quite  soothed  the  people's  ner- 
vousness. So  it  may  be  that  the  Government  and 
Poona  will  rub  along  together  again  for  a  space,  as 
they  often  have  done  before  for  years  together.  But 
you  need  not  expect  the  Maratha  to  like  it,  and  you 
cannot  expect  the  Government  to  give  him  back  In- 
dia. He  will  go  on  looking  vinegar,  and  there  is  no 
help  for  it. 


271 


XXX 

THE  JAIL 

u  THREE  yellow,  five  red,  two  blue,"  chanted  the 
convict  behind  the  growing  carpet.  "  As  thou  sayest 
so  let  it  be  done,"  chorused  the  convicts  sitting  in 
front  of  it,  as  they  slipped  the  thread  within  the  warp. 
Opposite  them,  and  further  up  the  long  factory,  and 
further  back  and  opposite  that,  rose  more  chants,  and 
after  each  the  vociferation,  "As  thou  sayest  so  let  it 
be  done." 

It  was  a  queer  sight  to  come  on  in  the  middle  of 
the  central  jail.  It  sounded  from  outside  half  like 
breakers  on  a  shingly  shore,  and  half  like  a  board 
school  at  the  multiplication-table.  "  That  sounds  like 
noise,  you  know,"  said  the  superintendent ;  "  but 
really  it's  honest  toil."  Inside  was  a  long  aisle  of 
looms  with  many-coloured  carpets  gradually  creeping 
up  them.  One  man  called  the  pattern — the  number 
of  stitches  to  be  plaited  in  of  each  colour;  with  a 
roar  the  brown-backed  criminals,  squatting  in  a  row 
over  the  carpet,  picked  out  their  threads  and  worked 
them  in.  "  Eight  green,  two  pink."  "As  thou 
sayest  so  let  it  be  done." 

The  Oriental,  as  you  know,  cannot  work  in  con- 
272 


The  Jail 

cert  unless  he  chants  in  concert  too.  And  he  has  a 
wonderful  ear  for  his  own  uproar.  Here,  for  instance, 
on  the  floor  were  two  men  bending  over  the  same 
pattern-carpet.  One  was  dictating  to  a  gang  on  one 
side,  the  other  on  the  other ;  they  were  at  different 
places,  and  as  each  bawled  out  a  direction  to  his  men 
the  others  were  revelling  in  their  "  So  let  it  be  done." 
Yet  there  was  not  a  mistake  in  either,  though  the  car- 
pets were  only  just  beginning  :  each  gang  must  have 
caught  every  word.  At  the  big  fifty-seven-foot  car- 
pet, of  course,  the  directions  were  hardly  needed :  it 
has  been  a-making  for  many  months,  till  the  leader 
reels  ofF  the  colours  and  numbers  by  heart,  and  the 
dozen  workers,  each  opposite  his  strip  of  pattern,  put 
in  the  stitches  like  automata.  All  the  carpet-workers 
are  picked  men  :  it  is  not  every  malefactor  that  has  the 
brain  to  take  in  the  directions,  or  the  eye  to  dis- 
tinguish the  colours,  or  the  hand  to  put  them  in. 
Such  as  have  prize  the  work,  for  it  is  the  only  task 
in  the  central  jail  at  which  you  are  allowed  to  make  a 
noise. 

It  is  different  with  the  half-hundred  or  so  of 
habitual  criminals  behind  the  inner  wall  which  iso- 
lates them  from  the  comparatively  innocent.  Their 
labour  lies  in  pumping  up  water  for  the  whole  jail. 
In  two  shifts — half  a  day  each — they  tug  and  strain 
at  the  cranks — chocolate  bodies,  stark  naked  but  for 
a  wisp  of  loin-cloth,  and  shaven  heads  with  one  tiny 
tuft  left  on  the  top — and  only  punctuate  their  toil  by 

273 


The  Jail 

grunts.  These  are  all  men  past  reformation  ;  many 
of  them  are  born  thieves,  and  thieves  for  life.  We 
talk  of  born  thieves  at  home,  but  our  hereditary 
crime  is  a  casual  accident  compared  with  India's. 
India  has  its  castes  and  tribes  of  thieves,  and  every 
member  of  them  is  born  to  robbery  as  naturally  and 
inevitably  as  you  are  born  to  your  father's  name. 
They  glory  in  their  calling  ;  but  even  if  they  did  not, 
they  could  follow  no  other.  To  steal  is  not  merely  a 
social  duty,  with  its  own  traditions  and  its  language, 
which  is  never  divulged  to  the  outsider,  but  a  very 
religion,  with  its  own  thieving  god.  For  a  member 
of  these  tribes  to  be  honest  would  be  an  impiety. 
Only  occasionally  and  accidentally  can  they  earn  an 
honest  living  as  watchmen  against  their  brothers.  For 
India  believes  literally  in  setting  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief,  although  to  catch  he  has  no  need,  because  his 
brothers  abstain  so  long  as  his  employer  gives  satisfac- 
tion. Meantime,  the  watchman  himself  steals  only 
as  much  as  is  necessary  to  keep  his  hand  in,  and  gen- 
erally returns  the  loot  immediately.  He  cannot  af- 
ford to  let  himself  get  rusty,  especially  if  he  be  a 
bachelor;  for  the  religion  will  not  allow  him  to  be 
married  till  he  has  achieved  the  qualifying  number  of 
larcenies. 

But    even    these    inbred    criminals,  together    with 

amateurs  who    equal    their    unwearied    ill-doing,  are 

not  in  this  prison  set  to  purposeless  labour,  such  as 

is  our  crank  at  home.     There  is  an  overflow-pipe, 

274 


The  Jail 

which  shows  in  a  moment  when  everything  has  been 
filled,  and  if  the  water  rises  in  that  half  an  hour  or 
an  hour  before  the  day's  end  they  knock  off  tri- 
umphant. In  any  case,  pumping  water  is  just  the 
work  whose  utility  the  native  understands.  It  is  bet- 
ter than  grinding  the  air. 

The  pump  is  only  for  the  definitely  depraved.  But 
every  convict  on  entering  must  work  through  a  spell 
of  heavy  labour — stone-breaking  for  road-metal  or 
corn-grinding.  The  jail,  like  most  at  home,  is  all 
but  self-supporting  :  the  assassin  grinds  the  flour  for 
his  own  supper.  The  mill  is  like  that  at  which  two 
women  shall  be  grinding  when  one  is  taken  and  the 
other  left — a  couple  of  grindstones  with  a  hole  and  a 
handle  in  the  upper  one  ;  the  men's  tasks  lie  in  a 
stone  bin  beside  each,  and  they  grind  away — a  row 
of  full-muscled,  flour-dusted,  bronze  statues.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  circle  the  kitchen  swelters  in  the 
sun — a  curving  bank  of  coppers  and  griddle-plates. 
Up  about  their  rims  stroll  bare-footed,  bare-bodied 
attendants,  and  prod  caldrons  of  hissing  cabbage  and 
cauliflower  with  baulks  of  timber.  "  Better  vegetables 
than  most  sahibs  get,"  says  the  superintendent ;  and 
if  an  unrepresentative  sahib  may  judge,  it  is  so  in- 
deed. But  the  bodies  of  the  prisoners  are  the  diet's 
best  recommendation — plumper  than  the  ordinary 
villager's,  thinner  than  the  ordinary  bunnia's.  India 
has  the  convenience  that  every  native's  poverty  or 
wealth  is  inscribed  on  his  belly. 
275 


The  Jail 

It  seems  a  grim  joke  to  talk  of  a  prison  as  an 
Arcadia ;  yet  these  plump,  industrious  jail-birds  some- 
how gave  more  impression  of  happy  usefulness  than 
a  dozen  villages.  It  was  so  compact,  so  well  ordered, 
so  well  directed.  In  the  next  circle  were  a  couple 
of  yards  full  of  bamboo-workers — the  men  sitting 
under  the  verandahs  with  chisel  and  hammer;  inside 
the  sheds  the  long  double-row  of  bare  sleeping-banks 
— hard,  but  scarcely  harder  than  their  beds  in  the 
villages,  and,  Lord  !  how  unspeakably  cleaner !  While 
dacoity  was  flourishing  a  number  of  Burmans  came 
to  this  jail ;  they  were  set  to  work  on  their  beautifully 
delicate  bamboo  tables  and  chairs  and  screen-work. 
There  are  only  half  a  dozen  or  so  left  now — little, 
button-nosed,  yellow  faces  among  the  amber  ones — 
but  there  are  enough  to  teach  the  Hindus,  and  do 
the  finer  work.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  pride  with 
which  they  displayed  the  latest  masterpiece;  pleasant 
to  go  into  the  next  yard  and  see  the  old,  old  men — 
too  frail  to  serve  out  a  life  sentence  of  twenty  years 
in  the  field-work  of  the  Andamans — dozing  out  the 
afternoon  over  a  pretence  of  twisting  yarn.  "  This 
is  the  yard  I  don't  like  to  show  to  a  visitor,"  says  the 
superintendent.  "  There's  almost  sure  to  be  some 
breach  of  discipline — an  old  chap  gone  to  sleep." 

Yes,  it  was  a  pleasant  sight,  this  jail.  For  you 
must  remember  that  the  prisoners  are  not  merely  bet- 
ter housed  and  better  fed  and  better — though  hideously 
— clothed  than  they  would  be  in  their  villages ;  they 
276 


The  Jail 

also  have  no  sense  whatever  of  guilt.  This  prison 
leaves  no  flavour  of  crime  in  the  mouth.  There  is 
no  evil  conscience  and  little  sullenness.  The  convict 
really  cannot  see  why  the  Sirkar  should  take  that 
little  affair  of  killing  the  co-respondent  so  seriously  ; 
still,  it  must  be  accepted  as  part  of  the  general  mad- 
ness of  sahibs,  and,  after  all,  the  place  is  not  such  a 
bad  one. 

It  sounds  queer  to  the  home-keeping  mind — and 
perhaps  queerer  still  that  most  of  the  warders  are 
murderers.  A  simple  society  like  most  in  India  has 
no  exaggerated  respect  for  human  life,  and  kills  where 
we  merely  assault  or  revile ;  therefore  the  murderer, 
judged  by  the  standard  of  criminal  intention,  is  often 
less  guilty  than  the  authors  of  what  we  call  minor 
crimes.  A  first  offender  can  rise  by  merit  to  be  a 
watchman  in  a  blue-and-white  cap,  and  then  to  be  a 
warder  in  lemon-coloured  breeches.  Every  prisoner, 
by  a  combination  of  good  work  and  a  blameless  walk, 
can  purchase  remission  of  sentence,  and  pay  which 
means  to  him  a  handsome  capital  to  re-commence  life 
with.  And  the  murderer-warders  do  their  work  very 
well,  especially  considering  that  some  of  the  prisoners 
are  millionaires  compared  with  themselves.  One 
great  point  is  that  many  of  them  are  utter  foreigners 
to  the  mass  of  the  convicts.  Here  is  an  Arab  from 
Aden,  there  a  Shan  from  Mogaung  in  Upper  Burma, 
there  a  Pushtu-speaking  Pathan  from  the  North- 
Western  border  j  in  the  European  quarter  is  a  Greek 
277 


The  Jail 

from  Zanzibar.  It  is  a  microcosm  of  India,  which 
remains  conquered  because  it  is  divided. 

At  certain  seasons  of  public  rejoicing  Government 
follows  the  good  old  oriental  custom  of  opening  the 
prison  doors — only  ajar,  and  with  circumspection. 
"We  haven't  recovered  from  the  Jubilee  yet,"  mourns 
the  superintendent :  "  lost  all  our  best  men."  Every- 
body released  on  that  auspicious  occasion  was  care- 
fully interrogated  to  make  sure  that  he  understood 
why.  As  the  result,  that  one  simple  soul  explained 
that  after  sixty  years  of  reign  the  Rani  had  a  son. 
Another,  more  sophisticated,  opined  that  the  Rani  had 
at  last  been  allowed  by  her  grateful  people  to  retire 
under  the  long-service  regulation.  A  third  argued 
bluntly  that  it  was  his  right.  "  People  were  released 
in  '77  and  '87 ;  so,  of  course,  I  ought  to  be  in 

'97" 

And  for  the  end,  there   is  one  spot  more  which  is 

not  Arcadia — the  European  quarter.  There  is  not 
very  much  of  that,  thank  Heaven !  and  what  there  is 
is  not  full,  and  of  those  there  some  are  not  Britons. 
Yet  there  are  a  few  Britons — and  in  the  drawn  faces 
and  the  eyes  that  dodge  past  you  what  a  difference 
from  the  Arcadians  !  You  look  down  yourself  and 
hurry  on,  and  almost  blush  when  next  you  meet  the 
first-class  assassin  in  lemon-colour. 

It   is  all   but  Arcadia — and  then,  as  always,  comes 
the    strange,    malignant,    hardly    human    twist    that 
appears  in  the  native's  mind  just  when  you  are  begin- 
278 


The  Jail 

ning  to  love  him.  In  jail  it  takes  the  form  of  false 
witness  and  most  astonishing  malingering.  The 
other  morning  the  superintendent,  on  his  round,  saw 
through  a  grille  a  quarrel  between  a  warder  and  a 
Brahman.  That  afternoon  the  Brahman  brought  a 
complaint  against  the  warder,  and  twenty  unanimous 
witnesses  to  prove  what  the  officer's  own  eyes  had 
showed  him  to  be  false.  Another  had  been  struck  by 
a  warder,  and  next  morning  appeared  covered,  not 
only  with  weals,  but  with  raw  strips  of  flesh  torn  away 
also.  The  doctor  was  puzzled,  till  an  ancient  warder 
whispered,  "  Examine  their  pyjama-strings,  Sahib." 
So  each  man  had  to  bring  up  the  string  that  runs 
round  the  waist  of  his  drawers,  and  the  tenth  or  so 
was  found  covered  with  blood  and  skin.  The  man 
had  spent  all  night  at  this  torture  merely  to  make  the 
case  sure  against  his  enemy. 

Not  less  inhuman  was  the  group  who  pierced  their 
thighs  with  bodkins  and  strings  soaked  in  oil  and 
dung,  giving  themselves  agonising  tumours  to  avoid  a 
moderate  day's  work.  Or  the  men  who  conceal  pills 
to  make  them  ill  in  holes  cut  in  their  flesh — it  is  too 
sickening  to  detail.  A  little  needed  comic  relief  was 
furnished  by  a  Sikh,  who  evidently  got  forbidden 
opium,  though  nobody  could  tell  how.  At  last  it  was 
observed  that  his  hair — a  Sikh's  religion  forbids  the 
cutting  of  his  hair,  so  this  is  not  done,  even  in  jail 
— was  curiously  sticky.  It  was  washed,  and  the  re- 
sults analysed,  whereon  it  turned  out  that  the  night 
279 


The  Jail 

before  imminent  conviction  the  Sikh  had  soaked  his 
head  in  a  strong  solution  of  opium.  He  absorbed 
enough  to  last  him  for  months,  and  sucked  it  off"  his 
hair  by  night. 


280 


XXXI 

HYDERABAD,  DEKHAN 

I  AM  in  quite  a  new  India — the  Dekhan.  I  can 
see  it  very  characteristically  from  the  temple  of  Par- 
bati,  above  Poona — characteristically  in  every  way. 

A  highly  educated  Brahman  shows  me  eight-armed 
goddesses  and  elephant-headed  gods,  compared  with 
which  a  penny  doll  is  artistic  and  spiritual ;  then  adds 
in  his  gusty  Marathi  head-voice,  u  Here-is-the-historic- 
window.  From-which-the-Peshwa-surveyed-the-bat- 
tle  -  of-Kirkee.  Which-resulted-in-his-conquest-by- 
the-British.  You-can-command-an-extensive-view." 
And  if  I  loiter — "  Command-the-view  !  "  he  urges 

O 

encouragingly.  I  hastily  command  it — Poona  city 
and  cantonment  and  the  lines  of  Kirkee,  all  cloaked 
in  trees,  looking  immense,  like  all  Indian  cities. 
They  lie  on  a  rumpled  carpet  of  grey-brown,  sun- 
burned down,  with  a  ring  of  low,  grey,  stony  moun- 
tain enclosing  it.  Only  here  and  there,  where  there 
is  water,  the  grey  is  lit  up  with  vividest  green — 
emerald  lines  where  a  canal  runs,  or  emerald  squares 
of  irrigated  field.  And  here  and  there  are  spots  of 
vermilion  and  red-lead — the  wonderful  gold-mohur- 
tree,  whose  blossoms  clothe  it  in  spring,  and  glow 
281 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

ever  more  fiercely  with  the  fiercer  sun,  till  it  looks 
like  a  tree  hidden  in  butterflies.  Uneven,  colourless 
tableland,  undecided  shapes  of  colourless  mountain, 
gemmed  here  and  there  with  dazzling  green  and  scar- 
let— that  is  the  type  of  the  whole  vast  triangle  of  the 
Dekhan. 

On  the  way  to  Hyderabad  you  roll  through  nearly 
four  hundred  miles  of  it  with  scarce  an  incident.  It 
looks  like  a  tableland,  as  it  is ;  at  this  season  it  also 
looks  worthless  land,  as  it  is  not.  Potentially,  say 
men  who  ought  to  know,  the  Nizam's  territory  is  of 
the  richest  in  India.  You  notice  at  once  the  wealth 
of  cattle — thousands  on  thousands,  satin-skinned, 
melting-eyed,  humped  little  beasts,  with  long  horns 
that  stand  straight  up  over  their  foreheads  like  the 
frame  of  a  lyre.  The  scantily  watered  soil  grows  few 
crops,  but  it  affords  copious  pasture  of  the  frugal 
Eastern  kind.  The  people  are  astonishingly  well-to- 
do.  A  plague-officer  told  me  that  he  visited  a  small 
town  off  the  railway,  where  hardly  a  white  man  had 
ever  been,  and  found  there  the  most  prosperous  popu- 
lation he  ever  saw.  Everybody  had  enough  of  every- 
thing ;  and,  as  this  land  was  well  irrigated,  the  one 
agent  of  Ralli  Brothers,  the  great  merchants  of  India, 
enjoyed  a  lucrative  monopoly  in  cotton.  These  happy 
villagers,  on  the  first  sign  of  plague,  had  independently 
isolated  themselves — shut  up  their  houses,  and  put  up 
a  temporary  town  in  the  fields.  They  deserve  their 
prosperity.  Besides  the  crops  and  the  cattle,  enthusi- 
282 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

asts  believe  there  is  enough  gold  in  Hyderabad  State 
to  cut  the  throat  of  Klondike  and  beggar  the  Rand. 
I  have  heard  the  same  of  Utah,  Tibet,  Madagascar, 
the  Libyan  Desert,  and  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  yet 
who  knows  ? 

At  a  station,  through  the  sun-shutters,  there  swept 
a  sudden  volley  of  yells,  imprecations,  shrieks,  groans, 
gibbers.  The  native  of  India  can  make  himself  heard 
when  it  is  a  question  of  giving  or  receiving  the  third 
part  of  a  farthing  ;  yet  surely  but  one  race  on  earth 
can  make  such  music  as  this.  I  looked  out,  and — 
yes  :  it  was  Arabs.  A  gang  of  half  a  dozen,  bril- 
liantly dishevelled,  a  faggot  of  daggers  with  an  antique 
pistol  or  two  in  each  belt,  and  a  six-foot  matchlock  on 
each  shoulder.  For  Hyderabad,  you  must  know,  is 
full  of  Arabs.  They  serve  as  irregular  troops  there, 
and  it  must  be  owned  that  if  irregularity  is  what  you 
want,  no  man  on  earth  can  supply  it  better.  Presently 
there  got  into  the  carriage  an  Arab  chief,  a  big  man  in 
breeches  and  gaiters,  a  revolver  and  a  fez;  his  family 
have  been  feudal  lords  under  the  Nizam  for  genera- 
tions. The  fez  appeared  to  be  the  fashionable  head- 
dress hereabouts  ;  even  the  railway  guard  wore  one 
over  the  black  curls  that  greased  his  official  collar. 
I  observed  that  the  railway  tickets  in  this  country  are 
stamped  with  a  crescent.  Next  I  noticed  a  Sikh  with 
his  hair  tied  into  a  bob ;  then  a  vulture-beaked 
Pathan  ;  then  a  group  of  half-a-dozen  soldiers  in  ill- 
fitting  khaki,  each  with  a  different  badge  on  his  chain- 
283 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

mail  epaulettes.  The  civilian,  hugging  his  corded 
bundle  cased  in  a  blue-and-red-striped  rug — the 
badge  of  the  Indian  third-class  passenger — also  cher- 
ished under  his  arm  a  cavalry  sabre.  Everywhere 
I  breathed  Islam  and  the  Middle  Ages  :  was  I  not 
coming  to  Hyderabad,  the  last  stronghold  of  medi- 
evalism in  Southern  India  ? 

Its  threshold  is  of  a  piece  with  it.  The  train  had 
caught  the  local  atmosphere,  and  was  forty  minutes 
late.  For  an  hour  we  had  been  running  through  his 
Highness's  huge  preserves — grey  leafless  bush  and 
coppice,  spangled  with  gold-mohur-trees.  Now  on 
either  side  rose  dump-heaps  of  grey-black  boulders  as 
large  as  houses — obelisks,  walls,  hemispheres,  mush- 
rooms, uprights  and  cross-bars,  formless  jumbles  as 
if  a  baby  Titan  had  been  playing  at  Stonehenge. 
Little  lonely  domes  appeared  below  them,  then  flat- 
roofed  houses,  then  broken  lines  of  suburbs.  Next 
came  a  broad  blue  lake,  with  round-headed  trees  low 
on  its  farther  shore,  and  a  long  white  palace  at  its  far 
end — a  mirage  made  substance.  Then  a  broad  plat- 
form, full  of  men,  armed  with  Martinis  and  match- 
locks, bayonets  and  scimitars,  in  khaki  and  blue  and 
amber  and  green  and  carnation.  Then  broad  streets, 
with  broughams  and  servants  in  gold-lace,  with  bul- 
lock-carts and  beggars  in  ashes.  Then  a  hotel  with  a 
large  compound  and  a  deep  terrace  in  front,  two 
flights  of  broad  steps  to  the  door,  the  naked  slate  of  a 
dismantled  billiard-table  within,  dinner  laid  outdoors 
284 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

for  eight,  and  I  the  only  guest.  There  was  spacious 
profusion  in  every  detail  of  Hyderabad. 

Next  day — of  course  with  two  horses,  and  one 
footman  to  fold  his  arms  on  the  box,  and  another  to 
run  in  front  and  push  cattle  out  of  the  way — I  drove 
out  to  see  Golconda.  Although  the  diamonds  were 
never  found  there,  and  are  cut  there  no  longer,  the 
opulent  name  of  Golconda  suits  well  with  Hydera- 
bad. What  is  there  now — the  fort  and  tombs  of  the 
kings  who  reigned  here  before  the  Nizams — is  not 
less  barbarically  vast.  You  drive  among  the  littered 
Titan  toys  till  you  find  yourself  heading  for  one  higher 
hill.  It  looks  like  the  rest  of  them — a  dump-heap  of 
the  world's  raw  material — till  suddenly  you  are  driv- 
ing through  a  lofty  arched  gate  with  guard-houses. 
Inside  are  lines,  some  ruinous,  some  alive  with 
soldiers  and  soldiers'  families ;  you  drive  and  drive 
through  a  great  city.  Presently  another  tall  gateway, 
with  more  guard-houses ;  you  go  through,  and  are  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Then  you  see  it  is  only  half  a  hill  and  half  a  build- 
ing. Men  have  filled  up  the  gaps  in  God's  dump- 
heap.  You  climb  between  walls  that  eke  out  cliffs, 
turn  descents  into  scarps,  slopes  into  ramps,  make 
curtains  of  cromlechs  and  bastions  of  rocking-stones. 
They  are  true  cyclopean  walls — huge  unfaced  stones 
laid  as  they  will  fit,  without  mortar.  You  doubt 
which  is  the  ruder  and  more  massive — man's  work  or 
Nature's.  But  when  you  struggle  to  the  top  you  see 
285 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

that  Nature  is  avenged  on  her  improvers.  Nature's 
chaos  still  stands ;  man's  is  as  chaotic,  and  less  stable. 
From  the  roof  of  a  ruined  palace  you  look  out  over  a 
tossing  sea  of  broken  masonry.  You  can  trace  the 
line  of  the  rough  outer  wall,  still  hardly  broken, 
dwindling  and  narrowing  below  you,  dipping  into  a 
depression,  climbing  again  as  a  thread  across  a  rise — 
the  mummied  skin  of  what  was  a  teeming  city. 
Within  it  the  bones  sear  and  gape  and  crackle  under 
the  pitiless  exposing  sun.  Palace  and  mosque,  armoury 
and  treasure-house,  they  are  all  gone.  Only  remains 
a  shapeless  waste  of  stones,  almost  as  rough,  and  not 
so  substantial,  as  the  huddled  granite  that  was  before 
them  and  remains  after.  Two  miles  away  rises  a 
heap  of  boulders  about  as  high ;  two  miles  from  either 
you  could  not  tell  which  was  fabulous  Golconda  and 
which  was  creation's  lumber. 

Nothing  remains  whole,  except  the  tombs.  Great 
domed  chambers,  square  without,  octagonal  within, 
vague  wistful  suggestions  of  the  Taj  without  its  beau- 
ties, they  lie  grouped  in  the  plain  below,  stripped  of 
their  embellishments,  crumbling  and  forlorn,  kept 
standing  by  the  alms  of  the  kings  that  have  succeeded 
to  their  glories.  Ghosts  of  the  dead  past — and  that 
is  all  there  is  of  Golconda. 

But  Golconda  is  nothing  to  us  that  we  should  weep 

for  it;  which    of  us  ever  heard  of  the  Kutb    Shahi 

kings,  of  Mohammed  Kuli  and  his  beautiful  favourite, 

Bagmati  ?     Come,  instead,    into    living    Hyderabad. 

286 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

Scale  the  sheer  elephant  that  awaits  you,  and  seesaw 
along  streets  as  gay  as  a  ballet.  A  mingling  of  in- 
cense and  cinnamon,  sugar  and  civet  and  dirt — the 
pure  smell  of  India — deliciously  fills  the  air  all  about 
you.  There  is  little  dirt  either :  the  regular  terraces 
of  houses — you  look  into  the  upper-storey  windows  as 
you  pass — the  plain  tall  arches  across  the  roadway, 
the  four  elaborate  minarets  whence  diverge  the  four 
broad,  thronged  main  streets:  it  is  all  orderly  and 
bright  and  spacious,  as  befits  Hyderabad — an  Asiatic 
Place  de  1'Etoile. 

Along  the  street  comes  a  tiny  boy  held  on  to  a 
pony.  He  lifts  a  vague  salaaming  hand  towards  the 
fez  that  sits  above  his  solemn  little  yellow  face.  Be- 
hind him  is  an  escort  of  half-a-dozen  lancers,  and  you 
naturally  conclude  that  he  is  of  the  Royal  family. 
But  he  is  only  the  son  of  one  of  the  nobles,  and  the 
lancers  behind  him  are  his  father's.  Everybody  who 
is  anybody  in  Hyderabad  has  a  little  army  of  his  own. 
In  the  city  and  cantonments — it  is  a  dozen  miles  from 
one  end  of  them  to  the  other — are  eight  distinct  kinds 
of  troops.  These  are  the  British  and  the  British  na- 
tive, the  Hyderabad  contingent — four  cavalry  regi- 
ments, four  field-batteries,  and  six  battalions,  main- 
tained and  officered  by  us  for  the  Nizam  in  return  for 
the  province  of  Berar — the  Imperial  Service  Troops, 
the  Nizam's  regular  troops,  the  Nizam's  irregular 
troops,  the  Nizam's  female  troops,  and  the  private 
feudal  irregulars.  Of  the  irregulars,  many  represent 
287 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

corps  originally  raised  and  led  by  French  officers ; 
some  of  them  still  preserve  a  kind  of  French  in  their 
words  of  command,  which  only  one  native  in  Hyder- 
abad understands.  The  Arab  irregulars  are  brought 
over  to  serve  their  time,  and  then  sent  back  to  Ara- 
bia; there  is  one  at  this  moment  who  is  a  subaltern  in 
Hyderabad,  but  as  soon  as  he  crosses  the  British  bor- 
der gets  a  salute  of  nine  guns :  he  is  a  sheikh  in  his 
own  country,  near  Aden.  As  for  the  woman's  bat- 
talion— alas  !  I  could  not  see  it  paraded,  since  it  is 
quartered  in  his  Highness's  zenana.  But  think  of  it 
— of  the  sheer  joy  of  riding  on  an  elephant  through  a 
city  where  they  still  maintain  a  Royal  Regiment  of 
Amazons ! 

As  you  pad-pad  along  through  the  panorama  of  In- 
dian types  and  the  spectroscope  of  Indian  colours,  the 
sound  of  tom-toms  floats  up.  Down  the  street,  be- 
yond the  four  minarets,  you  see  an  elephant,  then  a 
squibbing  flame,  and  the  scent  of  black  powder  is  in 
the  air.  A  fight  ?  No,  a  wedding,  which  is  even 
more  Hyderabadi — a  procession  that  seems  to  stretch 
through  the  whole  ten  miles  of  city.  First  half-a- 
dozen  men  letting  ofF  fireworks  and  tapping  tom-toms, 
then  a  towering,  red-coated,  gilt-tusked  elephant  bear- 
ing standards.  After  that  a  band,  and  then  the 
family  troops.  The  infantry  had  a  semblance  of  uni- 
form— a  flat  Ghurkha  cap  with  "  I  "  on  it :  presum- 
ably they  were  the  bridegroom's  First  Foot.  But  the 
irregular  cavalry  was  superb,  riding  two  and  two  all 
288 


Hyderabad,  Dekhan 

over  the  street  like  a  circus — big  Afghans,  desert 
pilots  from  Arabia,  Rathore  Rajputs,  and  sheer  black 
savages  from  Fashoda  way  ;  boys  and  old  men  in  grey 
beards  and  spectacles,  half-bred  Walers  and  country- 
bred  rats  and  living  skeletons  almost  too  lame  to  hob- 
ble, lances  and  sabres  and  carbines,  and  flintlock  pistols 
and  yataghans  and  switches.  Then  more  elephants, 
more  troops,  more  musicians,  and  the  bridegroom 
under  a  great  crimson  canopy.  Tom-tom-tom-tom 
— squeal  and  clatter  from  a  horse  that  hates  elephants 
— fiz-z-z-z  from  a  squib. 

Hyderabad  seems  too  good  to  be  true.     It  is  not  so 
much  a  city  as  a  masque  of  medieval  Asia. 


289 


XXXII 
MADRAS 

AT  last !  I  arrive  in  Madras,  and  here  at  last  is  the 
India  that  was  expected — the  India  of  our  childhood 
and  of  our  dreams. 

The  endless  corn-fields  of  Hindustan,  the  rolling 
dry  downs  of  the  Dekhan — and  then  in  a  night  every- 
thing has  changed.  The  air  is  moist,  the  sky  intensely 
blue.  You  drive  on  broad  roads  of  red  sand,  through 
colonnades  of  red-berried  banyans  and  thick  groves  of 
dipping  palms.  In  pools  and  streams  of  soft  green 
water  men  fish  with  rods,  only  their  black  heads  above 
the  surface;  at  the  edge  slate-coloured  baffaloes 
wallow  to  the  muzzle. 

And  the  people  are  just  as  you  have  always  seen 
them  in  your  mind.  Naked  above  the  loins,  petti- 
coated  below,  any  colour  from  ochre  to  umber,  sharp- 
featured  and  quick-eyed,  with  heads  close-clipped  be- 
fore and  streaming  with  ragged  locks  behind ;  the  fat 
Brahman  under  his  white  umbrella,  and  the  moist- 
backed  waterman  under  the  jars  swung  from  his  bam- 
boo pole, — they  pass  by  in  a  perpetual  panorama  of 
India — popular  India,  missionary  India — India  as  you 
knew  it  before  you  came. 

290 


Madras 

It  never  struck  me  before,  but  it  is  certainly  so : 
our  picture  of  India  at  home  is  the  reflection  of 
Madras.  You  never  thought  of  India  as  barley-fields 
and  big  men  in  sheepskins  ;  but  toddy  palms,  rice- 
stalks  standing  in  water,  lithe  little  coolies  in  loin- 
clothes — all  these  you  have  known  from  a  baby.  The 
reason  is  that  Madras  is  the  oldest,  the  most  historic 
province  of  British  India,  and  the  nursery  does  not 
change  its  ideas  lightly.  Moreover,  the  nursery  looks 
for  its  Indian  literature  mostly  to  missionaries,  and 
the  missionary  has  taken  a  far  firmer  hold  on  Madras 
than  elsewhere.  I  am  convinced  that  Little  Henry's 
Bearer  was  a  Madrasi. 

The  loyal  nursery  clings  to  Madras ;  the  rest  of 
India  calls  it  "  the  dark  Presidency,"  and  affects  to 
despise  it.  Nobody  can  deny  that  it  was  the  first 
province  where  British  arms  began  to  overthrow  all 
comers.  Who  can  forget  Clive  and  Dupleix,  and 
Coote  and  Hyder  Ali,  and  Tippu  and  the  Nabob  of 
Arcot's  debts  ?  But  they  say  up  North  that  Madras's 
future  lies  all  behind  it.  I  came  there  against  the 
strongest  advice  of  the  very  best  authorities  on  the 
Khyber  and  Waziristan — came,  saw,  and  was  con- 
quered. 

For  to  the  transient  loiterer  Madras  appears  by  far 
the  most  desirable  of  the  great  cities  of  India.  In 
Madras  there  appears  to  be  room  to  live.  In  Bombay 
you  camp  in  a  tent ;  in  Calcutta  you  contract  your 
elbows  in  a  boarding-house.  In  Madras  houses  are 
291 


Madras 

large,  and  stand  in  compounds  that  are  all  but  parks. 
The  town  spreads  itself  out  in  these  for  miles  and 
miles :  you  might  call  it  a  city  of  suburbs.  You  can 
drive  out  six  miles  one  way  to  a  garden-party,  and 
three  the  other  to  dinner.  Looking  down  on  it  from 
the  top  of  the  lighthouse  on  the  High  Court,  Madras 
is  more  lost  in  green  than  the  greenest  city  further 
north.  Under  your  feet  the  red  huddled  roofs  of  the 
Black  Town  are  only  a  speck.  On  one  side  is  the 
bosom  of  the  turquoise  sea,  the  white  line  of  surf,  the 
leagues  of  broad,  empty,  yellow  beach ;  on  the  other, 
the  forest  of  European  Madras,  dense,  round-polled 
green  rolling  away  southward  and  inland  till  you  can 
hardly  see  where  it  passes  into  the  paler  green  of  the 
fields.  Down  below,  though  the  streams  and  the 
Black  Town  fester  poisonously  enough,  you  never 
seem  to  be  in  a  crowd;  there  is  room  to  see  the 
people.  Madras,  further,  is  never  very  cold  and  never 
very  hot,  never  very  wet  and  never  very  dry.  Space, 
green,  white  and  scarlet  and  yellow  blossoms  on  the 
trees,  the  night-breeze  from  the  sea,  the  very  mosqui- 
toes so  strong  on  the  wing — they  give  you  the  feeling 
that  Madras,  so  far  from  dead,  is  consistently  alive, 
and  not  merely  tiding  over  from  one  season  to  an- 
other. 

Nor  can  the  wandering  eye  detect  signs  of  mental 

darkness.     The  railway  that  brings  you  into  Madras 

has  more  comfortably  arranged  carriages  and  fills  you 

with  better  and  cheaper  food  than  most,  if  not  than 

292 


Madras 

any,  in  India.  The  railway  that  takes  you  out  again, 
southward,  gives  by  far  the  best  travelling  of  any 
metre-gauge  line  I  have  tried.  In  Madras,  it  is  true, 
you  are  conveyed  away  from  the  station  in  a  sort  of 
perforated  prison  van,  but  that  happens  in  Calcutta 
too  and  Delhi.  Your  hotel  is  without  honour  in  its 
own  country,  but  in  Bombay  it  would  be  even  as  the 
Ritz  in  Paris.  The  native  enjoys  cheap,  rather  rapid, 
and  very  crowded  transport,  such  as  he  loves,  in  elec- 
tric tramcars.  Wherever  space  needs  to  be  econo- 
mised, the  wire  and  its  uprights  are  carried  along  the 
edge,  not  the  middle,  of  the  roadway,  and  the  trolley- 
arm  leans  over  to  follow  them.  Also  Madras  enjoys 
a  telephone  service ;  while  as  for  shops — the  leading 
tailor,  who  also  sells  lamps  and  tinned  apricots,  em- 
ploys his  hundreds,  and  the  leading  chemist's  might 
be  mistaken  for  the  town-hall. 

Then  where  is  the  darkness  ?  It  is  geographical. 
Madras  has  many  virtues,  but  it  has  fallen  into  the 
fatal  vice  of  being  out  of  the  way.  Before  the  age 
of  railways  every  considerable  city  in  India  was  in  the 
way,  was  its  own  centre.  Madras  had,  to  a  great  ex- 
tent, its  independent  government.  But  now,  when 
rails  have  knit  the  country  together,  and  the  centre  of 
it  oscillates  between  Calcutta  and  Simla,  Madras  is 
left  away  in  a  corner.  The  Calcutta  mail  goes  almost 
to  Bombay  before  it  turns  north-eastward :  either  to 
the  winter  or  to  the  summer  capital  it  is  nearly  four 
days'  journey.  Madras  swims  strongly  in  its  back- 

293 


Madras 

water,  but  in  the  main  stream  nobody  cares.  Other 
voices  make  what  they  call  public  opinion;  other 
hands  clutch  the  money  that  is  to  be  spent ;  other 
armies  fight  the  wars.  The  function  of  Madras  is  to 
pay.  Its  lands  are  all  held  direct  from  the  Crown, 
there  is  no  permanent  settlement,  and  the  assessment 
rises  steadily.  Madras  raises  the  revenue,  and  the 
North  spends  it ;  and  the  more  loyally  Madras  pays, 
the  less  constrainedly  the  other  provinces  squander. 

Within  the  last  weeks  an  event  had  happened  which 
ought  some  day  to  change  all  that.  The  East  Coast 
Railway  had  been  opened  for  traffic  between  Madras 
and  Calcutta  direct.  As  yet  the  many  rivers  on  the 
way  are  not  permanently  bridged ;  the  line  is  still  in 
sections ;  the  trains  are  very  slow  and  grossly  unpunc- 
tual,  even  for  the  East.  But  when  time  has  shaken 
it  into  shape  this  railway  should  bring  Madras  as  near 
to  Calcutta  as  Bombay  or  Lahore  is.  Then  the  whis- 
per of  Madras  may  penetrate  even  to  the  throne,  and 
the  very  Financial  Member  understand  that  a  province 
would  fain  receive  as  well  as  give.  Certain  material 
benefits  should  follow,  too.  Coal  will  come  down 
from  Bengal  or  Hyderabad  to  replace  the  failing  sup- 
plies of  firewood.  In  time  a  line  will  be  built  from 
Madras  to  Paumben,  opposite  Adam's  Bridge.  Near 
there  lies  the  island  of  Rameshwaram,  which  is  the 
holiest  place  but  two  in  all  India.  The  others  are 
Benares  and  Puri,  Juggernaut's  seat,  near  Cuttack. 
Between  Puri  and  Rameshwaram  the  myriads  of  pil- 
294 


Madras 

grims  will  throng  the  East  Coast  Railway,  to  its  own 
benefit  and  that  of  Madras.  Later,  it  may  be,  the 
line  will  be  carried  right  over  Adam's  Bridge  into 
Ceylon.  Then  Madras  would  stand  on  a  direct  route 
from  Europe  by  Colombo  to  Calcutta — a  route  that, 
since  the  P.  and  O.  meets  competition  at  Colombo 
and  none  at  Bombay,  should  be  somewhat  cheaper, 
less  plaguy,  not  appreciably  longer,  and,  when  it  saves 
the  change  at  Aden,  decidedly  more  comfortable  than 
the  present  way  by  Bombay.  If  that  comes  about 
Madras  will  have  its  chance  of  coupling  up  with  the 
world  again. 

Meanwhile  there  are  advantages  in  being  remote. 
Distant  from  seeds  of  war  and  sedition,  Europeans 
and  natives  appear  to  live  better  together  here  than 
elsewhere.  The  native  of  the  Madras  Presidency  is 
all  new  types.  For  the  most  part  he  is  Tamil,  small 
and  intelligent  in  the  northern  part,  robust  and  rowdy 
in  the  southern,  long-haired,  all  but  naked,  speaking 
a  language  whereof  Sundaraperumalkoil  is  a  fairly  rep- 
resentative mouthful.  From  the  west,  on  the  Malabar 
Coast,  you  hear  tales  of  still  stranger  men  and  man- 
ners,— of  Malayalis  and  Kanarese,  Christians  with 
Portuguese  names — they  were  converted  in  blocks  by 
the  Viceroys  of  Goa,  and  each  block  took  the  name, 
Albuquerque  or  D'Souza,  of  its  apostle — Arab-mixed 
Moplas,  Syrians,  black  Jews  and  white  Jews,  two  dis- 
tinct breeds,  in  Cochin.  In  this  Presidency,  too,  and 
especially  on  the  sequestered  west  coast,  you  can  see 
295 


Madras 

what  Brahmanism  is  like  when  wholly  undiluted  with 
Islam.  There  a  Brahman  is  so  holy  that  nobody  ever 
sees  him :  he  has  his  home  and  garden  and  temple  all 
inside  his  own  wall.  He  goes  abroad,  when  he  must, 
in  a  closed  palanquin,  and  its  bearers  shoo  every  caste- 
less  man  off  the  road.  If  a  low-caste  man  has  got 
nearly  to  the  end  of  a  long  narrow  bridge  and  meets 
a  Brahman's  palanquin,  he  must  turn  back  and  with- 
draw into  the  fields  out  of  pollution-shot.  In  this 
country  the  very  measures  of  distance  are  fixed  by  the 
spiritual  infecting-range  of  various  lower  castes :  in.- 
stead  of  speaking-distance  or  a  stone's-throw  they  talk 
of  the  distance  a  man  of  such  or  such  a  caste  must 
get  out  of  the  path  when  a  Brahman  comes  along. 
More  than  that,  only  the  eldest  brother  of  a  Brahman 
family  marries ;  the  rest  have  the  right  by  custom — 
which  is  law  and  religion  added  together  and  multiplied 
by  a  million — to  range  at  large  among  the  women  of 
lower  caste.  Until  lately  custom  ordained  that  the 
Brahman  was  not  responsible  for  the  maintenance  of 
his  children  by  such  women — as  a  rule  he  never  so 
much  as  sees  them.  The  magistrate  who  first  dared 
make  a  maintenance  order  in  such  a  case  was,  to  his 
honour,  a  Brahman  himself. 

But  all  that,  of  course,  is  outside  the  city  of  Madras. 
In  Madras  itself  the  native  is  perhaps  better  educated 
than  anywhere  else  in  India,  and — what  by  no  means 
goes  with  education — is  neither  captiously  discon- 
tented nor  complaisantly  submissive.  The  newspapers 
296 


Madras 

splutter  a  little  occasionally,  but  you  must  remember 
it  is  not  always  easy  to  say  quite  the  correct  thing  in 
a  language  not  your  own.  For  the  rest,  they  appear 
to  be  by  far  the  best-written  of  the  native  journals. 
Here  again  Madras  has  the  advantage  of  its  age. 
Whether  education  in  Madras — notice  that  education 
always  means  higher  education,  not  primary,  which 
hardly  exists — has  not  gone  too  far  is  another  matter. 
I  went  one  day  to  the  Convocation  of  the  University : 
when  the  Chancellor  said,  "  Let  the  candidates  step 
forward,"  the  whole  great  ball  rose  and  moved  a  pace 
to  its  front  in  battalions  of  B.L.'s  and  B.A.'s.  Are 
they  all  wanted  ?  The  supply  of  B.A.'s  exceeds  the 
demand  even  in  England  :  what  then  of  Madras  ? 

But  never  mind  that  for  now.  The  air  of  Madras 
does  not  agree  with  problems.  It  is  enough  to  be  in 
the  India  which  you  had  divined  and  have  found  at 
last — to  breathe  its  air  and  moisten  your  eye  with  its 
green.  About  Madras,  too,  you  can  notice  what  in 
chattering  Bengal  and  the  fighting  Punjab  you  are  apt 
to  miss.  There,  alone  on  the  field,  picking  at  the 
earth  with  a  single  careless  hand  on  his  plough  or 
standing,  a  lean,  naked  figure  among  the  sleepy  goats, 
you  see  the  bed-rock  of  native  India.  The  man  who 
neither  chatters  nor  fights,  but  does  what  the  Brahman 
tells  him,  looks  languidly  to  the  land  and  the  stock, 
and  pays  taxes.  He  is  essential  India. 


297 


XXXIII 
THE  SALT-PANS 

THE  Assistant-Commissioner  wore  a  khaki  uniform, 
a  braided  jacket,  and  a  crown  on  his  shoulder-strap ; 
yet  he  did  not  look  like  a  soldier.  He  looked  over- 
worked and  underfed.  His  eyes  were  pools  in  pits 
of  socket ;  the  bones  cropped  out  of  his  cheeks  and 
chin.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  was  always  travel- 
ling, eating  sparely  and  irregularly  of  jungly  food, 
often  down  with  fever,  oppressed  by  unrelenting 
anxiety. 

Being  in  the  Salt  Department,  it  is  not  wonderful 
if  he  was  all  this.  Salt,  as  you  know,  is  a  Govern- 
ment monopoly  in  India :  Government  controls  its 
production,  prevents  its  illicit  manufacture,  and  sells 
it  to  the  consumers.  For  these  functions  it  needs  a 
considerable  staff  of  Europeans ;  and  the  European 
of  the  Salt  Department  is  the  pariah  of  white 
India. 

Not  that  he  is  looked  down  on  like  a  pariah  ;  as  a 
rule  he  is  simply  not  looked  on  at  all.  As  a  rule  he 
is  dumped  down  on  a  salt-marsh  with  no  white  man 
within  a  journey  of  days.  His  work  makes  him 
unpopular  among  the  natives  about  him :  naturally 
298 


The  Salt-Pans 

they  do  not  see  why  they  should  not  scrape  up  the 
salt  which  God  has  evaporated  and  spread  at  their 
feet.  His  work  is  cruelly  hard.  At  any  minute  of 
the  night  he  has  to  get  up  to  inspect  the  guards 
posted  round  the  factory,  or  hurry  for  hours  to  sur- 
prise illicit  manufacturers.  Now  he  toils  forward  on 
horseback,  now  he  flounders  afoot  through  marshes 
and  sliding  sand-dunes,  now  crouches  in  a  sluggish 
boat  on  a  rank  canal.  When  he  falls  ill — and  of 
necessity  he  is  often  put  down  in  festering  fever-beds 
— he  will  likely  enough  have  to  shiver  and  sweat  for 
a  week  in  a  canal-boat  before  he  can  so  much  as  see 
a  doctor.  Month  by  month,  blistered  with  sun,  quiv- 
ering like  a  leaf  with  ague,  no  time  to  lie  up,  his 
English  tongue  going  rusty, — and  by  way  of  compen- 
sation for  his  lonely  labour  he  receives  .£125  a-year 
when  he  begins,  and  after  fifteen  years  or  so  will  per- 
haps be  enjoying  ^300. 

However,  this  particular  Assistant-Commissioner 
was  by  way  of  being  a  lucky  man.  His  district  is 
only  6000  square  miles,  against  some  people's  12,000. 
When  he  is  at  home,  which  he  is  almost  one  month 
in  three,  he  is  only  fourteen  miles  from  Madras ;  the 
trains  of  the  new  East  Coast  Railway  are  seldom 
over  three  hours  late,  so  that  you  can  generally 
reckon  on  doing  the  twenty-eight  miles  there  and 
back  in  a  day.  Also  there  are  two  European  in- 
spectors at  his  station,  which  is  one  of  the  largest 
salt-factories  in  the  Presidency. 
299 


The   Salt-Pans 

You  land  on  to  a  railway  embankment  of  red  sand, 
and  look  about  for  the  buildings  and  the  stacks  of  the 
factory.  You  will  see  nothing  of  the  kind  :  it  is  less 
a  factory  than  a  salt-farm.  But  first  begin  at  the 
beginning.  You  get  into  a  punt  and  embark  on 
what  seems  a  great  lake ;  it  is  really  a  backwater 
of  the  Bay  of  Bengal.  Once  upon  a  time  this  was  a 
sanitarium  for  Madras.  The  shores  of  the  backwater 
are  densely  planted  with  caserina,  a  fir  imported  from 
Australia,  which  will  grow  to  firewood  on  dunes  that 
will  nourish  nothing  else.  Out  of  the  black-green 
depths  of  these  plantations  appear  crumbling  ruins  of 
the  half-classical  end  of  last  century.  Here  is  the 
abandoned  Government  House ;  beside  it  moulders  the 
derelict  club.  Half-a-dozen  villas  are  still  owned  by 
residents  of  Madras  with  a  view  to  boating  and  fish- 
ing; but  hardly  a  soul  ever  comes  to  boat  or  fish. 
For  all  this  dates  from  the  days  before  railways ;  now 
people  spend  their  hot  weathers  in  the  hills  about 
Ootacamund.  And  now  the  old  sanitarium — whether 
the  caserina  plantations  blanket  it  from  the  sea-air,  or 
the  new  railway  bridge  has  unprisoned  all  the  filth  at 
the  bed  of  the  backwater — has  developed  into  a  fever- 
nursery  instead.  Nobody  remains  except  the  salt- 
officers  :  it  is  part  of  their  business  to  have  fever. 

At  the   lower  end   of  the  backwater  the  turquoise 

waves  curl  in  snowy  foam  over  the  bar,  and  swish  in 

through   the  breach   in   its   middle.     At  the  point — 

they  tell  you  with  a  kind  of  grim  pride — lies  a  salt- 

300 


The   Salt-Pans 

inspector,  who  died  alone  of  cholera  on  a  Christmas 
Day.  He  was  buried  in  a  piece  of  canvas  before  his 
colleagues  came  back  in  the  evening  to  hear  that  he 
was  ill. 

The  factory  itself  is  on  the  opposite  shore,  and 
farther  inland.  When  you  land  again  and  climb  over 
the  railway  embankment,  you  see  it  stretched  at  your 
feet — a  few  little  white  shanties  on  the  horizon,  and 
nothing  else.  Nothing  but  a  great  flat  of  broken, 
dull-brown,  muddy  soil.  When  you  get  down  on  to 
it  you  see  less  still.  Nothing  grows  except  a  red 
thing  like  a  stone-crop  and  a  few  coarse  grass  tufts 
on  banks  and  tumbling  hillocks.  Under  wan,  lustre- 
less clouds  the  ground  looks  barren  of  all  goodness, 
numb  and  despairing.  You  slither  along  through 
slime,  and  presently  find  that  the  whole  place  is 
seamed  with  watercourses  —  broad  channels  like 
canals,  with  ditches  and  runnels  taking  out  of  them. 
The  soil  is  marked  into  checkers  by  little  banks.  It 
is  like  richly  irrigated  land  under  a  curse  of  utter 
sterility.  Water  all  about  you,  earth  under  foot,  yet 
everywhere  this  melancholy  and  haggard  desolation. 

That  is  the  farm — a  farm  watered  with  brine, 
whose  crop  is  salt.  With  relief  you  come  upon 
something  doing — a  few  poles  and  bars,  black  like 
gibbets  on  the  bleak  horizon,  with  men  about  them. 
Nearer,  you  see  that  they  are  water-hoists.  .  A 
cross-bar  balances  on  an  upright ;  at  one  end  hangs  a 
palm-fibre  bucket ;  a  man  standing  on  the  bar  shifts 
301 


The   Salt-Pans 

back  and  forward,  and  seesaws  the  bucket  into  the 
water  and  out  again ;  another  on  the  ground  empties 
it  into  a  channel.  This  leads  it  to  the  flat  checkers ; 
and  here  are  a  couple  more  naked  men  paddling  in 
the  shallow  brine  as  for  their  lives.  Stamp,  stamp, 
stamp,  up  and  down,  back  and  forward,  across  and 
across,  in  a  kind  of  combination  between  a  treadmill 
and  a  palsied  step-dance.  They  seem  so  gravely  con- 
centrated on  nothing  that  at  first  you  think  them  mad, 
then  learn  that  they  are  making  the  floor.  They 
stamp  and  stamp  and  stamp  it  down  hour  by  hour, 
day  by  day,  till  it  is  as  hard  as  concrete.  Then  with 
floor  and  banks  the  pans  are  complete. 

They  let  the  brine  stand  first  in  deeper,  then  in 
shallower,  pans,  and  evaporate  in  the  sun  for  about 
ten  days — until  the  intensity  of  its  saltness  rises  from 
three  by  the  halometer,  or  whatever  it  is  called,  to 
twenty-five.  Then  the  salt  is  precipitated  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pans  and  raked  off  with  broad  wooden 
hoes  like  squeegees.  The  natives  are  as  light-handed 
as  they  are  heavy-footed  ;  they  never  break  the  floor 
which  they  made  with  their  own  soles.  The  salt 
drawn  off  is  dried  in  the  sun  on  the  ridges  of  the 
pans,  then  broken  up,  then  put  into  sacks,  then  put 
into  boats,  and  taken  to  Madras  to  be  sold.  And  that 
is  all  about  it. 

That  is  all — except  crushing  sun  and  blinding  white 
glare  and  all-penetrating  salt-dust  for  the  salt-officer. 
In  the  hottest  part  of  the  hottest  days  other  men  get 
302 


The  Salt-Pans 

under  roofs  :  that  is  just  the  time  that  he  must  be  out 
all  day  in  the  sun.  The  factory  is  a  chessboard  of 
twinkling  brine  and  snow-white  salt,  more  scorching 
to  the  eye  than  flame.  While  his  eyes  are  being 
toasted  before  a  quick  fire,  salt-drifts  are  banking  up 
in  them  and  in  his  ears  and  his  nostrils  and  his  mouth. 
He  looks  round,  and,  like  Lot's  wife,  becomes  a  pillar 
of  salt.  With  it  all  the  few  salt-officers  I  have  seen 
appear  to  grumble  almost  less  than  anybody  in  India. 
They  say  it  is  a  healthy  life — as  long  as  you  are  well : 
when  you  begin  to  be  unhealthy  at  all  you  are  quickly 
very  unhealthy  indeed.  Perhaps  one  reason  for  their 
comparative  contentment  is  that  they  are  justly  proud 
of  their  department.  For  in  salt,  as  in  most  things 
connected  with  revenue,  Madras  sets  an  example  of 
efficiency  and  honesty  to  the  whole  of  India.  The 
salt  revenue,  you  understand,  is  Imperial — goes,  that 
is,  to  the  treasury  of  all  India,  though  it  is  collected 
by  the  provincial  Governments.  Now  the  salt-tax  is 
very  unpopular ;  therefore  a  timid  and  dishonest  pro- 
vincial Government  will  be  lax  in  putting  down  illicit 
manufacture  and  pressing  the  sale  of  the  licit  product. 
Thus  it  keeps  its  subjects  in  good  humour,  and  after 
all  it  is  not  the  province  that  suffers,  but  India  as 
a  whole.  The  Bengal  Government,  for  instance,  has 
long  winked  at  contraband  salt-scraping  all  along  its 
coast ;  as  the  result,  it  sells  its  people  only  two-thirds 
or  so  of  the  salt  they  use,  and  defrauds  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  of  .£666,666,  135.  4d.  or  so  a-year. 
3°3 


The   Salt-Pans 

In  Madras,  on  the  other  hand,  Government  sells 
16*4  lb.  of  duty-paying  salt  per  head  of  population  per 
annum.  It  has  been  pronounced  on  good  authority 
that  man  needs  16  Ib.  of  salt  in  a  year ;  so  that  the 
Madras  Government  can  congratulate  itself  that  its 
subjects  do  not  deny  themselves  of  an  ounce  of  nec- 
essary salt,  and  that,  at  the  same  time,  the  State  profits 
by  every  ounce  consumed.  Furthermore,  this  result 
appears  to  be  attained  without  hardship  to  the  natives. 
Of  prosecutions  initiated  by  the  department  in  the  last 
year,  over  ninety-nine  per  cent,  have  resulted  in  con- 
viction ;  during  the  same  time,  charges  have  diminished 
by  twenty-three  per  cent.  Finally,  there  were  only 
eight  cases  of  assault  on  servants  of  the  department. 
That,  in  a  country  where  the  only  known  expression 
of  genuine  public  opinion  is  riot,  goes  to  prove  that 
the  salt-tax,  and  the  salt  administration,  and  the  salt- 
officer  are  not  so  unpopular  as  they  are  sometimes 
painted. 

Where  the  white  salt-officer  probably  is  unpopular 
is  among  his  own  native  colleagues.  A  young  man 
sends  down  a  bottle  of  illicitly  distilled  spirits — he  is 
excise  officer  for  liquor  purposes  also — to  his  native 
superior.  It  is  his  first  case,  and  he  is  pleased  with 
himself — till  he  meets  the  native.  "What  was  in 
that  bottle  you  sent  down  ?  "  "  Arrack,  of  course." 
"  Ah,  I  thought  so.  When  I  got  it  there  was  nothing 
in  it  but  sweet-oil.  However,  don't  worry ;  I've 
emptied  it  and  filled  it  up  with  arrack  and  sealed  it. 
3°4 


The   Salt-Pans 

I'll  swear  it  had  arrack  in  it  all  the  time,  and  we  shall 
convict  the  fellow  all  right." 

It  is  rather  hard  for  the  young  man  to  have  to  begin 
his  official  career  by  ruining  a  man  who  only  meant  to 
keep  him  out  of  trouble.  Still,  that  is  just  what  the 
young  man  is  there  for.  There  are  fine  openings  for 
bribery  and  put-up  cases  in  the  salt  and  liquor  depart- 
ment. Here,  as  elsewhere  in  jesting  India,  the  native 
draws  the  British  rate  of  pay  and  the  Briton  supple- 
ments the  native's  work  as  well  as  doing  his  own. 
He  has  to  guard  the  guardians. 


3°5 


XXXIV 
THE  GREAT  PAGODAS 

SOUTHWARD  out  of  Madras  you  still  run  through 
the  new  India,  the  old  India  of  the  nursery.  Now  it 
is  vivid  with  long  grass,  now  tufted  with  cotton,  then 
dark-green  with  stooping  palm-heads  or  black  with 
firs;  anon  brown  with  fallow,  blue  with  lakes  and 
lagoons,  black  with  cloud-shadowing  pools  starred 
with  white  water-lilies.  Presently  red  hills  break 
out  of  the  woods,  then  sink  again  to  sweeping 
pastures  dotted  only  with  water-hoists  and  naked 
herdsmen. 

Then  in  the  placid  landscape  you  are  almost  startled 
by  the  sight  of  monuments  of  religion.  A  tall  quad- 
rangular pyramid,  its  courses  lined  with  rude  statues, 
a  couple  of  half-shaped  human  figures,  ten  times  hu- 
man size,  a  ring  of  colossal  hobby-horses  sitting  on 
their  haunches  like  a  tea-party  in  Wonderland — they 
burst  grotesquely  out  of  meadow  and  thicket,  stand- 
ing all  alone  with  the  soil  and  the  trees.  No  worship- 
pers, no  sign  of  human  life  near  them,  no  hint  of  their 
origin  or  purpose — till  you  almost  wonder  whether 
they  are  artificial  at  all,  and  not  petrified  monsters 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

These  are  the  outposts  of  the  great  pagodas  of 
306 


The  Great  Pagodas 

Southern  India — those  sublime  monstrosities  which 
scarce  any  European  ever  sees,  which  most  have 
never  heard  of,  but  which  afford  perhaps  the  strongest 
testimony  in  all  India  at  once  to  the  vitality  and  the 
incomprehensibility  of  Hinduism.  The  religion  that 
inspired  such  toilsome  devotion  must  be  one  of  the 
greatest  forces  in  history ;  yet  the  Western  mind  can 
detect  neither  any  touch  of  art  in  the  monuments 
themselves  nor  any  strain  of  beauty  in  the  creed. 
Both  command  your  respect  by  their  size  :  that  which 
is  so  vast,  so  enduring,  can  hardly,  you  tell  yourself, 
be  contemptible.  And  still  you  can  see  nothing  in 
the  temples  but  misshapen  piles  of  uncouthness,  noth- 
ing in  the  religion  but  unearthly  superstitions,  half 
meaningless  and  half  foul. 

The  nearest  approach  to  a  symmetrical  building  is 
the  great  pagoda  of  Tanjore.  Long  before  you  near 
the  gate  you  see  its  tall  pyramidal  tower,  shooting 
free  above  crooked  streets  and  slanting  roofs.  Pres- 
ently you  see  the  lower  similar  towers,  so  far  from  the 
first  that  you  would  never  call  them  part  of  the  same 
building.  In  reality  they  are  the  outer  and  inner 
gateways — gopura  is  their  proper  name — built  in 
diminishing  courses,  garnished  with  carving  and  stat- 
uary. From  a  distance  the  massive  solemnity  of  their 
outlines,  the  stone  lace  of  their  decorations,  strike  you 
with  an  overwhelming  assertion  of  rich  majesty.  But 
you  are  in  India,  and  you  wait  for  the  inevitable  in- 
congruity. 

3°7 


The  Great  Pagodas 

It  comes  at  the  very  gate.  The  entrance  is  not 
under  the  stately  gopura,  but  under  a  screen  and 
scaffolding  of  lath  and  plaster  daubed  with  yellow 
and  green  grotesqueness — men  with  lotus-eyes  looking 
out  of  their  temples,  horses  with  heads  like  snakes, 
and  kings  as  tall  as  elephants.  There  is  to  be  a  great 
festival  in  a  day  or  two,  explains  the  suave  Brahman ; 
therefore  the  gopuras  are  boarded  up  with  pictures 
beside  which  the  tapestries  of  our  pavement-artists 
are  truth  and  beauty.  You  walk  through  scaffold- 
poles  into  a  great  square  round  the  great  tower,  and 
with  reverence  they  show  you  that  colossal  monolith, 
the  great  bull  of  Tanjore.  I  wish  I  could  show  you 
a  picture  of  him,  for  words  are  unequal  to  him.  In 
size  he  stands,  or  rather  sits,  thirty-eight  hands  two. 
His  material  is  black  granite,  but  it  is  kept  so 
piously  anointed  with  grease  that  he  looks  as  if  he 
were  made  of  toffee.  In  attitude  he  suggests  a  roast 
hare,  and  he  wears  a  half-smug,  half-coquettish  ex- 
pression, as  if  he  hoped  that  nobody  would  kiss  him. 

From  this  wonder  you  pass  to  the  shrines  of  the 
chief  gods.  The  unbeliever  may  not  enter,  but  you 
stand  at  the  door  while  a  man  goes  along  the  dark- 
ness with  a  flambeau.  The  light  falls  on  silk  and 
tinsel,  and  by  faith  you  can  divine  a  seated  image  at 
the  end.  Next  you  are  at  the  foot  of  the  great  tower, 
and  the  ridiculous  has  become  the  sublime  again. 
Every  storey  is  lined  with  serene-faced  gods  and 
goddesses,  dwindling  rank  above  rank,  a  ladder  of 
308 


The  Great  Pagodas 

deities  that  seems  to  climb  half-way  up  to  heaven. 
Then  the  Brahman  shows  you  a  stone  bull  seated  on 
the  ground,  like  a  younger  brother  of  the  great  one. 
"  It  is  in  existence,"  he  says,  throwing  out  his  words 
in  groups,  dispassionately,  as  though  somebody  else 
were  speaking  and  it  were  nothing  at  all  to  do  with 
him — "  it  is  in  existence — to  show  the  dimensions — 
of  four  other  bulls — which  are  in  existence — up 
there."  You  lay  your  head  back  between  your 
shoulder-blades,  and  up  there,  at  the  very  top,  among 
gods  so  small  that  you  wonder  whether  they  are 
gods  or  only  panels  or  pillars,  are  four  more  little 
brothers  of  the  hare-shaped  toffee-textured  monster 
below. 

Reduplication  is  the  keynote  of  Hindu  art.  The 
same  bulls  everywhere,  the  same  gods  everywhere, 
and  all  round  the  cloistered  outer  wall  scores  on  scores 
of  granite,  fat-dripping,  flower-crowned  emblems,  so 
crudely  shapeless  that  you  forget  their  gross  signifi- 
cance— but  all  absolutely  alike.  Next  the  Brahman 
leads  you  aside  to  piles  and  piles  of  what  look  like 
overgrown,  gaudily  painted  children's  toys.  This  is 
an  exact  facsimile  of  the  Tower,  reduced  and  imitated 
in  wood.  It  is  all  in  pieces,  but  at  the  festival  the 
parts  are  fitted  together  and  carried  on  a  car.  Every 
god  sculptured  on  the  pyramid  is  represented  in  a 
section  of  this  model,  waiting  to  be  fitted  into  his 
place.  Only  what  is  richly  mellow  in  tinted  stone 
is  garishly  tawdry  in  king's  yellow  and  red  lead 

3°9 


The  Great  Pagodas 

— and  again  you  tumble  from  the  sublime  to  the 
infantile. 

Next,  a  little  shrine  that  is  a  net  of  the  most 
delicate  carving — stone  as  light  and  fantastic  as  wood ; 
pillar  and  panel,  moulding  and  cornice,  lattice  and 
imagery,  all  tapering  gracefully  till  they  become 
miniatures  at  the  summit.  It  is  a  gem  of  exquisite 
taste  and  patient  labour.  And  the  very  next  minute 
you  are  again  among  flaming  red  and  yellow  dragon- 
tigers  and  duck-peacocks,  and  the  one  is  just  as  holy 
and  just  as  beautiful  to  its  worshippers  as  the  other. 
From  which  objects  of  veneration  the  Brahman  passes 
lightly  to  the  domestic  life  of  the  frescoed  rajahs  of 
Tanjore.  "  This  gentleman — marry  seventeen  wives 
— all  one  day — doubtless  in  anxiety  of  getting  son." 
It  is  quite  true.  The  Rajah,  having  but  three  wives 
and  no  child,  resolved  to  marry  six  more  young  ladies, 
and  collected  seventeen  to  choose  them  from.  But 
the  fathers  and  brothers  of  the  rejected  eleven  were 
affronted;  and  rather  than  have  any  unpleasantness 
on  his  wedding-day,  his  Majesty  tactfully  married  the 
whole  seventeen,  nine  in  the  morning  and  eight  in  the 
afternoon.  "  And  here,"  pursued  the  Brahman  auto- 
matically, showing  a  tank,  "  he  will  let  in  water — 
and  here  he  will  play — with  all  his  females — and  all 
that." 

That  is  all,  except  to  write  your  name  in  the 
visitor's  book.  As  I  went  in  to  sign,  I  noticed  a 
band  of  musicians  standing  at  the  door  and  thought 
310 


The  Great  Pagodas 

no  more  of  it.  But  as  my  pen  touched  the  paper, 
suddenly  reedy  pipes  and  discordant  riddles  and  heady 
tom-toms  began  to  play  "  God  Save  the  Queen." 
A  huge  chaplet  of  muslin  and  tinsel,  like  a  magnified 
Christmas-tree  stocking,  was  cast  about  my  neck ; 
betel  and  attar-of-rose  were  brought  up  in  silver 
vessels,  and  flowers  and  fruits  on  silver  trays.  The 
pagoda  keeps  its  character  to  the  end  :  the  compliment 
was  sublime — and  I  ridiculous. 

Yet  the  temple  of  Tanjore  is  the  most  simple  and 
orderly  of  all  its  kind.  Visit  the  great  pagoda  of 
Madura  and  you  will  come  out  mazed  with  Hinduism. 
All  its  mysteries  and  incongruities,  its  lofty  meta- 
physics and  its  unabashed  lewdness,  seem  to  brood 
over  the  dark  chambers  and  crannying  passages.  The 
place  is  enormous.  Over  the  four  chief  gateways 
rise  huge  pyramid-towers,  coloured  like  harlequins,  red 
tigers  jostling  the  multiplied  arms  and  legs  of  blue 
and  yellow  gods  and  goddesses  so  thick  that  the 
gopuras  seem  built  of  them.  In  the  pure  sunlight  you 
almost  blush  for  their  crudity,  just  as  you  would  blush 
if  the  theatre  roof  were  lifted  off  during  a  matinee. 
But  inside  the  place  is  nearly  all  half-lighted,  dim,  and 
cryptic.  You  go  through  a  labyrinth,  that  seems 
endless,  of  dark  chambers  and  aisles.  Now  you  are 
in  thick  blackness,  now  in  twilight,  now  the  sun  falls 
on  fretwork  over  pillared  galleries  and  damp-smelling 
walls.  But  as  the  light  falls  on  the  pillar  you  start, 
for  it  is  carved  into  the  shape  of  an  elephant-headed 

311 


The  Great  Pagodas 

Ganesh,  or  a  conventionally  high-stepping  Shiva.  On 
you  go,  from  maze  to  maze,  till  there  is  no  more 
recollection  of  direction  or  guess  at  size :  you  are  lost 
in  an  underground  world  of  gods  that  are  half  devils ; 
you  hardly  distinguish  the  silent-footed,  gleaming- 
eyed  attendants  from  the  stone  figures.  Some  of  the 
fantastic  images  are  smeared  with  red-lead  to  simulate 
blood :  all  drip  with  fat.  A  heavy  smell  of  grease 
and  stagnant  tank-water  loads  your  lungs. 

You  feel  that  you  are  bewitched — lost  and  helpless 
among  unclean  things.  When  you  come  out  into  the 
sun  and  the  cleaner  dirt  of  the  town,  you  draw  long 
breaths.  If  you  could  understand  the  Hindu  religion, 
you  tell  yourself,  you  would  understand  the  Hindu 
mind.  But  that,  being  of  the  West,  you  never,  never 
will. 


312 


XXXV 
THE  RUPEE 

IF  you  would  learn  about  the  Indian  currency 
question  do  not  go  to  India.  I  would  not  say  that 
you  will  become  the  less  able  to  understand  it,  but 
you  will  hardly  become  more  so.  If  you  stayed 
there  for  twenty  years  and  kept  a  trained  eye  upon 
the  question  in  all  its  bearings,  your  knowledge  would 
probably  be  very  valuable ;  but  if  you  wish  to  under- 
stand the  question  in  the  space  of  a  month  or  two, 
your  time  would  not  be  well  spent  in  going  to  India : 
you  had  much  better  stay  at  home  and  read  Blue- 
Books.  For  the  Englishman  in  India,  knowing 
something  of  India,  is  the  first  to  admit  that  he  knows 
nothing  about  its  currency  question.  He  will  prob- 
ably be  able  to  tell  you  a  few  of  the  inconveniences 
of  having  such  a  thing ;  but  beyond  that  the  native 
himself  is  not  more  unintelligible. 

The  rupee  is  a  little  thing,  but  it  is  at  the  bottom 
of  the  whole  matter.  The  case  is  just  this :  if  it 
were  only  the  rupee  and  nothing  more,  all  would  be 
well — there  would  be  no  Indian  currency  question. 
Unfortunately  the  rupee  is,  or  was  until  the  Indian 
Government  saw  to  it,  also  a  bit  of  silver.  At  one 
3*3 


The    Rupee 

and  the  same  moment  it  was,  and  still  is  to  some  ex- 
tent, a  piece  of  money  and  a  piece  of  merchandise — 
indissolubly,  inalienably  both.  Now  that  imperative 
dual  function — perhaps  we  ought  rather  to  say  that 
function  and  that  attribute — is  more  than  the  little 
rupee  is  able  to  bear.  Could  it  succeed  in  shaking 
off  one,  all  would  be  well.  To  rid  the  rupee  of  its 
incubus — that  is  the  aim  of  all  these  years  of  strenu- 
ous wrangling.  That  must  be  the  aim  of  any  legis- 
lation which  is  to  abolish  the  Indian  currency  ques- 
tion. Which  must  go,  then — the  function  or  the  at- 
tribute ?  The  attribute,  clearly.  The  rupee  must 
continue  to  be  money  ;  there  is  no  great  reason  why 
silver,  the  article  of  merchandise,  should  be  rupees. 
What  is  wanted  is  to  make  the  rupee  a  rupee,  and 
nothing  more.  If  that  cannot  be  done,  the  rupee 
must  give  place  to  something  else. 

Let  us  try  to  be  a  little  more  explicit,  less  dog- 
matic. Money,  economists  tell  us,  is  a  medium  of 
exchange  and  a  measure  of  value.  One  of  the  req- 
uisites of  an  efficient  measure  of  value  is  stability. 
A  commodity  which  is  worth  so  much  this  year  and 
perhaps  half  as  much  again  next  may  be  a  good 
speculation,  but  is  certainly  an  extremely  bad  measure 
of  value.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  find  that  to  get  quit 
of  your  bill  you  have  to  pay  half  as  much  again  as 
you  expected.  Rather  than  run  the  risk  of  that 
people  will  do  no  business  at  all.  But  so  it  is,  or 
much  the  same,  with  silver.  Whether  that  is  the 

3H 


The    Rupee 

fault  of  silver  or  of  gold  need  not  bother  us.  The 
point  has  its  value  as  providing  an  outlet  for  the 
dangerous  controversial  energies  of  metallists,  both 
mono-  and  bi-,  but  has  not  much  to  do  with  the  In- 
dian currency  question.  The  fact  remains  that  the 
value  of  silver  as  measured  by  gold  is  unstable. 

That  brings  us  to  another  rub.  The  value  of 
silver  as  measured  by  gold  might  be  as  unstable  as  it 
liked,  for  anything  India  need  care,  but  for  India's 
dealings  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  At  this  moment 
not  only  does  the  Indian  ryot,  who  is  most  of  India, 
not  know  that  there  is  any  such  thing  as  a  currency 
question — he  would  not  know  it  in  any  case — but  he 
is  really  very  little  the  better  or  the  worse  for  the 
particular  circumstances  which  have  produced  it. 
But  India  has  a  great  foreign  trade,  and  India  has  a 
great  foreign  debt,  and  India  employs  a  great  many 
foreigners  to  manage  her  affairs.  Now  most  of 
India's  foreign  trade  is  with  gold-standard  countries — 
that  is  to  say,  countries  which  measure  their  values  in 
gold.  Most  of  the  money  she  owes  was  borrowed  in 
gold ;  and  her  managers  come  from  a  gold-standard 
country,  and  want  their  pay  in  gold.  It  is  her 
contact  with  the  moving  West  that,  monetarily  speak- 
ing, worries  India. 

The   rupee,  being  what   it   is,  has   followed   silver. 

When  silver  has  become  cheaper  in  terms  of  gold  the 

rupee    has    become    cheaper  with    it.     Whether   the 

value  of  the  rupee  has  followed  that  of  silver  exactly, 

3*5 


The    Rupee 

or  whether  it  has  not,  the  argument  is  the  same. 
Moreover,  properly  speaking,  it  is  the  exchange  value 
of  the  rupee,  rather  than  its  value  as  a  piece  of  silver, 
upon  which  the  whole  question  hinges.  Other 
factors  than  the  gold  price  of  silver  contribute  to  the 
exchange  value,  at  least  since  the  closing  of  the 
mints ;  but  neither  need  they  be  considered  at  this 
point.  Silver  is  the  main  factor  anyhow,  and  for  the 
last  quarter-century  silver  has  been  almost  constantly 
on  the  down  grade.  One  may  say  that  the  decline 
began  in  1873,  when  Germany,  flushed  with  the 
French  millions,  discarded  silver  and  took  to  gold. 
In  self-defence  the  countries  of  the  Latin  Union, 
which,  by  keeping  their  mints  open  to  both  gold  and 
silver  at  a  fixed  ratio,  had  done  so  much  towards 
keeping  silver  at  its  then  accepted  gold  level,  were 
forced  to  desert  it.  Probably  also  a  very  much  more 
powerful  factor  in  the  fall,  and  therefore  in  its  results, 
was  the  enormous  development  of  silver  mining. 
The  average  world's  output  of  silver  during  the 
five  years  1871—75  was  rather  more  than  63^  million 
ounces;  by  1892  the  year's  output  had  increased  to 
over  153  million  ounces.  At  the  same  time  the 
wealth  of  the  world,  as  computed  in  money,  in- 
creased very  fast.  Silver  became  inconvenient  in 
itself  as  a  basis  of  monetary  systems.  Moreover, 
every  secession  from  the  ranks  of  the  silver-standard 
countries  made  the  preservation  of  a  silver  standard 
more  inconvenient,  unprofitable,  and  dangerous  to  the 
316 


The    Rupee 

residue.  Desperate  efforts  were  made  to  arrest  the 
swift  descent.  International  conferences  were  tried  in 
vain.  The  unblushing  and  successful  efforts  of  the 
silver  men  in  the  United  States  have  cost  that  country 
millions  upon  millions  of  dollars.  Yet  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. Silver,  which  stood  at  55.  the  ounce  in  1872, 
had  fallen  below  35.  in  1893;  tne  ruPee  exchange  fell 
during  the  same  period  from  2s.  to  is.  2^d.  Country 
after  country  was  throwing  silver  overboard  and  tak- 
ing up  gold  in  its  place. 

The  year  1893  ls  one  to  be  remembered  in  the 
monetary  life  of  India.  It  is  marked  by  the  closing 
of  the  mints.  Until  1893  anybody  could  bring  as 
much  silver  as  he  liked  to  the  Indian  mints  and  re- 
ceive rupees  in  exchange.  In  1893  tnat  r'gnt  was 
abrogated  by  law.  The  position,  as  we  have  seen, 
was  becoming  serious.  The  rupee  was  down  below 
is.  3d.;  there  seemed  every  likelihood  of  its  falling 
lower  still.  Worse  than  all,  there  was  no  possibility 
of  forecasting  with  any  certainty  what  the  rupee  might 
or  might  not  do.  If  it  was  to  fall,  nobody  knew  how 
far  or  how  quickly ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  fall  might 
be  varied  by  temporary  recoveries.  The  fall  which 
had  already  taken  place  had  brought  the  Government 
to  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  The  uncertainty  was 
playing  havoc  with  trade.  True,  a  receding  exchange 
had  brought  prosperity  to  some  industries,  but  at  the 
cost  of  the  introduction  of  that  speculative  element 
which  is  highly  deleterious  to  sound  trading.  Further- 

3J7 


The    Rupee 

more,  the  field  for  the  disposal  of  silver  was  becoming 
so  restricted  that  India  ran  the  risk  of  becoming  a 
dumping-ground  for  the  world.  But  what  chiefly 
made  the  position  impossible  was  the  impossible  posi- 
tion of  the  Government — that  was  the  main  factor  in 
the  closing  of  the  mints. 

In  every  year  the  Government  of  India  has  to  re- 
mit a  very  large  sum  of  money  to  England,  partly  to 
meet  home  charges,  partly  to  meet  the  interest  on  the 
sterling  debt  of  India.  This  is  done  by  selling  in 
London  drafts  payable  in  India,  which  are  bought 
by  persons  who  want  to  pay  away  money  in  India. 
These  Government  drafts  are  put  up  to  tender.  The 
higher  the  tender — that  is  to  say,  the  higher  the  price 
in  sterling  which  the  Indian  Government  can  get  for 
each  rupee  which  it  undertakes  to  pay  in  India,  the 
better  it  is  for  the  Indian  Government — the  fewer  will 
be  the  rupees  that  the  Government  will  have  to  collect 
in  India ;  or,  if  you  like,  the  rupees  which  it  has  will 
go  all  the  further.  When  the  rupee  exchange  fell 
from  2s.  in  1872  to  is.  2^d.  in  1893, tnat  meant  that 
with  each  rupee  of  revenue  the  Government,  instead 
of  being  able  to  discharge  2s.  worth  of  obligation  in 
England,  was  only  able  to  discharge  is.  2*^d.  worth. 
Imagine  what  that  means  when  millions  of  pounds 
sterling  are  concerned.  Sir  James  Mackay  told  the 
Indian  Currency  Committee  in  May  of  last  year  that 
had  the  rupee  exchange  stood  at  an  average  of  is.  be- 
tween the  closing  of  the  mints  in  1893  an(*  March  of 


The    Rupee 

last  year  (as  it  easily  might  have  done  had  the  mints 
remained  open),  instead  of  where  it  did,  the  cost  to 
the  Government  and  the  Indian  taxpayer  would  in  all 
likelihood  have  reached  another  nine  millions  sterling. 

The  decline  and  fall  of  the  rupee  has  borne  very 
hardly  on  those  Englishmen  in  India  who  are  paid  a 
fixed  number  of  rupees — civil  servants,  officers  of  the 
Indian  army,  and  so  forth.  Not  that  the  purchasing 
power  of  the  rupee  in  India  has  varied  a  great  deal ; 
it  has  not.  But  many  of  these  men  are  obliged  to 
send  home  a  part  of  their  income  to  their  wives  and 
children ;  still  more,  put  by  what  they  can  out  of  pay 
none  too  lavish  as  a  nest-egg  to  fill  out  the  pension 
when  they  get  home  again  for  good.  Were  salaries 
fixed  on  the  basis  of  a  low  rate  of  exchange  there 
would  be  no  ground  for  complaint.  But  they  are  not ; 
nor  indeed  has  it  been  possible  to  fix  them  so  when 
exchange  has  been  oscillating  as  it  has.  It  is  annoy- 
ing to  find  that  while  you  have  been  sleeping  a  third 
of  your  savings  has  run  away  down  the  gutter  of  a 
falling  exchange.  Again,  when  a  rupee  was  falling 
lower  every  year  the  value  of  rupee  pensions,  fixed  at 
a  higher  rate  and  paid  at  a  lower,  fell  with  it.  It  is 
annoying  to  have  to  reduce  your  wine  bill  in  your  old 
age  through  no  fault  of  your  own. 

The  railways  are  very  much  on  the  same  footing 
with  the  Government — those,  that  is  to  say,  which  are 
built  with  English  capital,  which  are  most  of  them. 
They  borrowed  their  capital  in  sterling,  took  it  out  to 


The    Rupee 

India  in  sterling,  must  pay  interest  on  it  in  sterling. 
But  the  native  pays  for  his  ticket  with  rupees  or  frac- 
tions of  rupees.  The  lower  the  rate  of  exchange  the 
fewer  are  the  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  that  the  na- 
tive's rupees  produce,  and  the  less  the  railway  com- 
pany has  left  over  to  provide  dividends  for  the  share- 
holders. Of  course  many  of  the  railways  enjoy  some 
sort  of  Government  guarantee :  if  the  dividend  which 
such  a  company  itself  is  able  to  pay  fall  below  a  cer^ 
tain  point  the  Government  makes  itself  responsible 
for  the  difference.  That  is  very  well  for  the  company, 
but  it  makes  the  plight  of  the  Government  the  more 
unpleasant.  Moreover,  it  only  makes  the  company's 
case  a  little  better  than  it  otherwise  would  be,  for  their 
British  capital  is  wasting  all  the  time.  A  sovereign 
brought  out  with  the  rupee  at  2s.  could  only  go  back 
as  135.  4d.  with  the  rupee  at  is.  4d. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  section  of  India's  for- 
eign trade  upon  which  the  effect  of  a  low  and  falling 
exchange  is  in  a  sense  the  very  opposite.  I  refer  to 
the  exporters  of  Indian  produce  and  manufactures — 
tea  and  indigo  planters,  cotton  spinners  and  weavers, 
coal  and  gold  miners,  and  the  like.  A  good  many  of 
these  people,  usually  companies,  are  like  the  railways 
in  this  respect,  that  they  work  with  capital  brought 
out  from  England :  their  interest  must  go  over  in 
sterling.  They  are  also  like  the  railways,  in  that  the 
bulk  of  their  working  expenses  is  paid  away  in  rupees. 
But,  to  their  infinite  advantage,  they  are  unlike  the 
320 


The    Rupee 

railways,  in  that  they  are  paid  for  their  produce  in  the 
same  currency  in  which  they  have  to  pay  their  in- 
terest. This  does  not  apply  to  Indian  exports  to 
China,  but  it  applies  to  her  exports  to  Europe,  Austra- 
lia, the  United  States,  and  Japan.  The  advantage  is 
obvious.  So  far  from  having  to  scrape  together  in- 
creasing myriads  of  rupees  for  the  purpose  of  discharg- 
ing their  obligations,  they  are  really  for  the  moment 
much  more  comfortable  when  the  rupee  is  falling  than 
when  it  is  even  standing  still.  A  sovereign's  worth 
of  tea,  for  instance,  sent  to  England  will  bring  back 
fifteen  rupees  with  the  exchange  at  is.  4d.,  but  only 
ten  with  the  exchange  at  the  old  rate  of  2s.  Now 
whereas,  as  we  have  seen,  prices  and  wages  in  India 
itself  change  very  slowly,  if  at  all,  a  sixteen-penny 
rupee  will  make  a  sovereign  go  about  half  as  far  again 
as  a  2s.  rupee ;  so  that  your  planter  has  five  rupees  to 
play  with,  and  can  either  pay  a  bigger  dividend  or  re- 
duce his  prices,  besides  having  no  need  to  worry  about 
expenses.  He  has  usually  done  a  little  of  each.  It 
is  not  surprising  that  the  planter  and  spinner  have 
steadfastly  stood  by  the  low  rupee.  Yet  as  recently 
as  last  June  the  chairman  of  one  of  the  Indian  tea 
companies  was  congratulating  his  shareholders  on  the 
steadiness  of  the  rupee  in  the  region  of  is.  4d.,  be- 
cause had  it  remained  at  is.  2^d.  the  stimulus  to 
planting  would  have  proved  so  violent  that  over-pro- 
duction and  its  consequent  evils  must  certainly  have 
resulted. 

321 


The    Rupee 

One  other  effect  of  a  shifting  rupee  remains  to  be 
considered — its  effect  upon  the  introduction  of  capital 
into  India.  India  is  a  country  of  vast  natural  re- 
sources, materially  speaking,  but  those  natural  re- 
sources are  very  far  from  being  fully  developed  ;  and 
nowadays  vast  resources  can  only  be  developed  with 
the  aid  of  vast  capital.  The  accumulations  of  capital 
in  the  world  are  greater  than  ever  before :  never  in 
the  course  of  history  has  the  available  capital  been 
more  abundant ;  never  has  capitalistic  enterprise  been 
more  vigorous.  Yet  there  are  people  who  say  that 
India  is  hanging  back  in  the  march  of  what  we  call 
progress  for  want  of  these  things.  The  restrictions 
or  safeguards — the  term  varies  with  the  point  of  view 
— imposed  by  the  Indian  Government  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  though  one  of  the  earliest  inci- 
dents of  the  new  Viceroy's  rule  was  their  partial  re- 
laxation. But  something  of  the  blame  undoubtedly 
rests  with  the  rupee.  Who  is  going  to  send  capital 
to  India  when,  for  aught  he  can  tell,  in  the  course  of 
a  few  months  it  might  automatically,  without  the 
slightest  action  on  his  part,  begin  to  vanish  ?  That, 
as  we  have  seen,  is  the  effect  of  a  falling  rupee. 
True,  during  the  past  few  years  the  rupee  has  firmed 
up,  and  bids  fair,  in  the  view  of  sanguine  minds,  to 
remain  firm.  But  that  is  not  good  enough  for  your 
capitalist.  He  is  as  fearsome  as  a  scalded  cat.  There- 
fore, ironically  enough,  this  improved  exchange,  so 
far  from  bringing  capital  into  the  country,  has  had  the 
322 


The    Rupee 

opposite  effect  of  taking  it  out.  "We'll  get  our 
money  back  while  we  can,"  the  capitalists  have  said 
among  themselves.  The  exchange  can  hardly  go 
much  above  is.  4d.,  thanks  to  the  Government  meas- 
ures of  1893,  an<^  **  mignt  g°  down  again  as  it  has 
done  before.  Meanwhile  India  languishes  for  want 
of  capital. 

In  1892,  then,  things  looked  black.  Silver  and  the 
rupee  had  fallen  far,  and  bade  fair  to  fall  further.  A 
brand-new  International  Conference  failed  of  a  bi- 
metallic consummation.  The  Indian  Government 
wrote  home  asking  permission  "to  close  the  mints  to 
the  free  coinage  of  silver,  with  a  view  to  the  intro- 
duction of  a  gold  standard."  In  a  word,  the  Indian 
Government  was  sick  of  drifting ;  and  small  wonder. 
Silver  was  all  very  well  in  its  way,  there  was  much  to 
be  said  for  it;  but  the  game  was  not  good  enough, 
single-handed  or  nearly  so.  If  the  Indian  Govern- 
ment had  its  way  silver  would  go  overboard.  Lord 
Herschell's  Committee  thought  it  might  have  its  way, 
and  overboard  silver  went.  The  splash  was  terrific. 
The  metallists  swarmed  round  the  spot  where  it  fell, 
and  cannonaded  each  other  soundly  in  bloodless  con- 
troversy. But  silver  was  gone  under  and  could  not 
be  raised.  The  sound  of  their  cannonading  was  loud 
and  long ;  but  most  of  it  was  eminently  premature  : 
they  hit  each  other  for  what  they  thought  might  re- 
sult from  each  other's  policies.  Five  years  afterwards, 
in  1898,  the  hubbub  had  hushed  a  little,  and  the  In- 

323 


The    Rupee 

dian  Government,  encouraged  by  the  comparative 
stability  of  the  rupee,  and  urged  by  the  instability  of 
commercial  conditions,  proceeded  relentlessly  with  its 
design  for  the  replacement  of  silver  as  the  standard 
metal  by  gold ;  whereupon  the  Home  Government 
appointed  a  committee  to  look  into  the  matter. 

The  committee  sat  long  and  laboriously,  and  in  the 
fulness  of  time  the  fruits  of  its  labours  appeared  in 
the  shape  of  three  immense  Blue-Books  and  an  ex- 
tremely able  and  lucid  report.  The  Secretary  of  State 
approved;  the  Indian  Government  is  probably  only 
anxious  to  do  the  same,  despite  the  somewhat  summary 
treatment  which  its  own  proposals  received  at  the 
committee's  hands.  By  the  time,  therefore,  that  this 
book  reaches  the  world,  the  Indian  currency  question 
will  probably  be  in  a  fair  way  towards  settlement ;  for 
the  time  being,  let  us  add — for  caution's  and  the  silver 
men's  sake. 

What,  then,  is  the  plan  which  is  to  lay  this  ghost 
which  has  walked  so  long  ?  In  the  first  place,  the 
committee  declares  for  gold  out  and  out.  The  British 
sovereign  is  to  be  a  legal  tender  and  a  current  coin  in 
India.  The  Indian  mints  will  take  in  all  the  gold 
that  comes  their  way,  giving  sovereigns  or  rupees  in 
exchange.  At  the  same  time,  the  rupee  will  continue 
to  be  an  unlimited  legal  tender  concurrently  with  the 
British  sovereign,  and  it  is  to  be  worth  is.  4d.  If,  as 
the  committee  desires,  an  effective  gold  standard  be 
thus  established,  "  not  only  will  stability  and  exchange 

324 


The    Rupee 

with  the  great  commercial  countries  of  the  world  tend 
to  promote  her  existing  trade,  but  also  there  is  every 
reason  to  anticipate  that,  with  the  growth  and  confi- 
dence in  a  stable  exchange,  capital  will  be  encouraged 
to  flow  freely  into  India  for  the  further  development 
of  her  great  natural  resources."  May  the  committee 
see  true ! 

H.  S. 


325 


XXXVI 
THE  ARMY  AND  MUTINY 

OUR  army  in  India  is  maintained  as  a  defence 
against  two  dangers — invasion  from  without  and  re- 
bellion within.  The  double  character  is  inevitable, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  is  a  source  of  military  ineffi- 
ciency. It  involves  a  radical  contradiction.  Two- 
thirds  of  our  force  in  India  consists  of  native  troops. 
To  guard  against  Russia  our  policy  is  to  make  these 
as  highly  efficient  as  troops  can  be  made.  To  guard 
against  mutiny  our  policy  is  to  keep  them  inferior  in 
efficiency  to  our  own  white  troops.  In  dealing  with 
the  British  troops  Government  is  in  a  similar  dilemma. 
To  make  them  efficient  against  a  disciplined  enemy 
they  should  be  trained  together  in  large  armies,  wherein 
officers  can  learn  to  move  and  combine  masses  of 
troops  of  all  arms.  To  make  them  an  efficient  police 
against  internal  disaffection — so  it  is  argued — they 
should  be  spread  as  widely  as  possible  over  the  coun- 
try,— should  present  everywhere  to  the  natives  the 
spectacle  of  white  troops  within  easy  striking  distance 
of  any  point,  and  in  command  of  all  important  stra- 
tegical positions. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  consistent  pursuit  of  one 
326 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

policy  means  a  proportionate  weakness  in  the  other. 
If  one  danger  is  decidedly  the  more  urgent  of  the 
two,  then  wisdom  demands  that  the  provision  against 
the  other  should  be  frankly  sacrificed.  It  seems  to 
be  the  opinion  of  many  good  judges  in  India  that  the 
time  has  come  to  do  this — to  make  our  military 
policy  truly  military,  and  leave  internal  politics  to 
politicians. 

The  danger  of  another  Mutiny,  it  may  confidently 
be  said,  is  vanishing  every  day.  But  even  if  it  were 
not,  the  measures  taken  to  guard  against  it  are  obso- 
lete. The  great  Mutiny  owed  its  temporary  success 
in  the  first  place  to  the  difficulty  of  moving  up  loyal 
troops  over  the  enormous  distances  of  Northern  India. 
The  railway  only  ran  from  Calcutta  to  Raniganj — 
1 20  miles  out  of  the  900  to  Meerut;  the  roads  were 
bad  and  transport  scarce.  The  mutiny  at  Meerut 
broke  out  on  the  loth  of  May;  Havelock  could  not 
march  from  Allahabad  till  the  jth  of  July.  These 
difficulties  will  never  have  to  be  encountered  again. 
Now,  by  steamer  and  rail,  troops  could  reach  Meerut 
from  Aldershot  far  sooner  than  then  they  could  reach 
Meerut  from  Calcutta.  That  fact,  known  as  well  to 
natives  as  to  Europeans,  is  a  strong  deterrent  against 
rising;  and  it  would  furnish  the  strongest  weapon 
against  any  rising  that  might  occur.  The  force  to 
defeat  a  new  Mutiny  would  not  be  garrisons  shut  up 
in  isolated  towns,  with  small  columns  turning  from 
the  relief  of  one  to  that  of  another,  but  strong  columns, 

327 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

transported  rapidly  by  rail,  and  swiftly  crushing  each 
force  of  rebels  as  it  began  to  gather  head.  The  first 
requisite  for  such  a  mobile  column  would  be  good 
regimental  training  and  tactical  efficiency. 

Now  an  instance  of  what  is  being  done  to  secure 
this.  The  first  battalion  of  the  Royal  Warwickshire 
Regiment  arrived  in  India  last  October.  It  had  just 
made  the  campaign  of  Khartum.  Fully  maintaining 
the  reputation  of  the  old  Sixth,  it  was  acknowledged 
by  all  to  be  among  the  best  of  the  uniformly  fine  regi- 
ments employed  on  that  service.  The  men  were  of 
a  good  average  of  service,  weeded  by  a  summer  in  the 
Sudan,  braced  by  war.  Their  drill,  discipline,  and 
shooting  were  consistently  excellent.  Such  a  regi- 
ment was  fit  for  anything.  When  it  arrived  in  India 
it  first  learned  that  it  had  been  sent  there  by  mistake 
or  prematurely  :  it  was  not  wanted  anywhere.  Finally, 
half  of  it  was  dumped  down  in  Fort  George,  with  no 
ground  for  manoeuvring  or  shooting  within  miles,  and 
the  other  half  at  an  obscure  place  called  Bellary,  three 
hundred  miles  away,  to  guard  an  old  fort  of  Tippu 
Sultan.  What  devotion  or  ingenuity  on  earth  can 
prevent  that  regiment  from  deterioration  ?  It  is  im- 
possible to  keep  even  the  separate  wings  at  their  pres- 
ent level  of  efficiency ;  but  even  if  it  were  not,  how 
can  a  battalion  keep  itself  fit  to  take  the  field  when 
its  two  wings  are  stationed  three  hundred  miles  apart 
and  never  drill  together  ?  How  can  even  a  proper 
regimental  feeling  be  maintained  when  officers  and 
328 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

men  are  forced  to  grow  strangers  ?  What  is  to  be- 
come of  the  men,  plunged  into  a  languid  climate  after 
severe  exertions,  conscious  that  their  soldiering  is  no 
longer  a  thing  in  earnest  ?  What  is  to  become  of  the 
senior  officers,  deprived  of  their  chance  of  learning  to 
handle  a  regiment.  Or  of  the  junior,  first  whetted  by 
war  and  then  compelled  to  find  their  chief  interest  in 
something  other  than  their  profession  ? 

This  is  only  a  single  incident  in  a  deliberate  policy. 
The  1st  Seventh  Fusiliers  are  divided  between  Nussir- 
abad  and  Neemuch,  the  ist  Norfolk  between  no  less 
than  four  stations  on  the  Bombay  side,  the  2nd  Royal 
Irish  between  Mhow  and  Indore,  the  2nd  K.O.S. 
B.'s  between  Cawnpore  and  Fatehgarh,  the  ist  East 
Surrey  between  Jhansi  and  Nowgong,  the  2nd  Royal 
Sussex  between  Sialkot  and  Amritsar,  the  2nd  South 
Staffordshire  between  two  stations  in  Burma,  the  ist 
Dorset  between  Nowshera  and  Attock,  the  2nd  South 
Lancashire  between  Jubbulpur  and  Saugor,  the  2nd 
Welsh  between  Ahmednagar  and  Satara,  the  ist  Black 
Watch  between  Sitapur  and  Benares,  the  2nd  Oxford- 
shire Light  Infantry  between  Ferozepur  and  Mian 
Mir,  the  ist  Essex  between  Shwebo  and  Bhamo,  the 
Royal  West  Kent  between  Rangoon  and  the  Andaman 
Islands,  the  ist  Middlesex  between  four  stations  in 
Madras,  the  2nd  Connaught  Rangers  between  Meerut 
and  Delhi,  the  2nd  Argyll  and  Sutherland  Highlanders 
between  Bareilly  and  Shahjahanpur,  and  the  2nd  Royal 
Munster  Fusiliers  between  Dinapur  and  Lebong. 
329 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

Nineteen  British  regiments  in  all  split  up  into  pieces, 
and  thus  deprived  of  their  best  chance  of  efficiency  ! 
It  is  incredible  that  the  political  situation  demands 
this  dispersal  of  units ;  it  is  impossible  that  the  mili- 
tary situation  should  not  be  weakened  by  it. 

Many  of  the  native  regiments  are  similarly  sub- 
divided. But  with  them  the  principal  drag  is  their 
armament.  None  of  them  have  the  Lee-Metford 
rifle,  wherefore  they  were  often  called  on  in  the  late 
frontier  war  to  face  an  enemy  better  armed  than  them- 
selves. In  a  Russian  war  they  would  have  to  do  the 
same  under  much  severer  conditions.  In  such  a  war 
it  is  very  probable  that  the  Anglo-Indian  army  would 
be  inferior  in  numbers ;  should  it  be  allowed  to  be 
also  inferior  in  weapons  ? 

I  know  that  this  is  a  subject  of  great  difficulty  and 
delicacy.  It  is  an  axiom  with  many  people  in  India 
that  the  native  troops  should  always  be  kept  one  stage 
behind  the  British.  Only  we  should  beware  lest  in 
making  them  safe  to  ourselves  we  issue  in  render- 
ing them  equally  safe  to  our  enemies.  That  is  surely 
the  greater  danger  of  the  two.  After  the  Mutiny 
care  was  taken  to  weaken  any  fresh  tendencies  to  re- 
volt by  instituting  class  company  regiments,  combin- 
ing men  of  different  race  and  creed.  A  regiment 
thus  divided,  it  was  thought,  would  be  less  likely  to 
combine  against  its  officers.  But  of  late  this  system 
has  been  abandoned,  and  the  newer  units  are  class 
regiments — all  Sikhs  or  Pathans  or  Dogras,  or  what- 

330 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

ever  it  may  be.  This  reversion  to  the  old  system, 
while  presumably  stimulating  regimental  keenness, 
may  be  taken  to  show  that  the  Indian  Government  no 
longer  feels  any  acute  apprehension  as  to  the  loyalty 
of  the  native  troops.  Indeed  it  may  be  said  confi- 
dently that  such  apprehensions  are  no  longer  justified 
in  the  very  least  degree  :  there  is  no  doubt  at  all  of 
the  faithfulness  of  the  native  army.  It  may  be  true 
that  a  Mussulman  can  never  quite  surmount  a  feeling 
of  antipathy — at  any  rate  of  strangeness — to  a  Chris- 
tian, or  a  native  of  India  to  a  European.  But  it  is 
also  true  that  if  the  breach  between  races  forbids  in- 
timacy, it  leaves  room  in  the  army  for  comradeship, 
and  even  nurtures  the  personal  devotion  of  men  to 
officers.  It  is  not  quite  easy  to  see,  therefore,  why 
the  native  army  is  not  armed  with  the  very  best  weapon 
available.  In  any  case,  a  beginning  might  be  made 
with  the  Ghurkhas.  They  are  foreigners  in  India,  as 
we  are.  They  have  neither  caste  nor  religion,  and 
therefore  associate  far  more  easily  with  Europeans : 
the  friendship  between  Johnny  and  Tommy  has  long 
been  a  commonplace  of  mess-room  anecdote.  In  any 
rebellion  it  is  as  certain  as  anything  can  be  that  the 
Ghurkhas  would  be  on  our  side  though  all  India  were 
against  us.  Why  not  give  the  Ghurkhas  Lee-Met- 
fords  ?  And  if  the  Ghurkhas,  why  not  the  Guides, 
the  Sikhs,  everybody  ?  The  French  trust  Senegalese 
with  repeating-rifles :  cannot  Britain  do  the  like  in 
India  ? 

331 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

It  is  only  natural  that  the  tremendous  experience  of 
1857  snould  stiH  t>e  something  of  a  nightmare  to  the 
Indian  Government.  "  We  are  living  on  a  volcano." 
"  It  has  happened  once ;  it  may  again."  You  hear 
such  phrases  nearly  every  day.  I  have  even  heard  it 
said  that  if  all  the  ryots  were  ever  to  rise  in  a  body, 
British  rule  would  collapse  utterly  and  in  a  day.  Per- 
sonally I  should  be  inclined  to  back  one  battalion  of 
British  infantry,  given  time  and  ammunition,  against 
all  the  ryots  in  India.  But  even  if  the  ryots  are  far 
more  formidable  than  they  seem,  they  do  not  want  to 
rise,  and  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  they  ever 
will  rise.  A  faction  fight  or  a  religious  shindy  now 
and  again — certainly ;  that  is  the  ryot's  Exeter  Hall. 
But  about  his  rulers  he  neither  knows  nor  cares ;  and 
if  he  did,  he  would  never  agree  about  them  with  the 
other  ryots ;  and  if  they  all  did  know  and  agree,  they 
would  only  conclude  that  they  are  very  much  better 
off  under  the  existing  Sirkar  than  they  ever  were,  or 
are  likely  to  be,  under  any  other.  Where  the  ryot  is 
poor  he  is  no  poorer  than  he  was.  Where,  as  in 
some  parts,  his  wife  and  children  carry  on  their  per- 
sons enough  jewellery  to  keep  them  for  five  years, 
fearing  neither  raiding  troopers  by  day  nor  dacoits  by 
night — what  should  impel  this  man  to  risk  his  life  and 
property  in  hope  of  a  mere  change  of  rulers  ? 

Native  India,  relatively  to  our  own  force,  is  not 
militarily  stronger  than  ever  it  was,  and  is  perhaps 
even  more  divided.  What  disaffection  exists  is 
332 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

mostly  confined  to  the  superficially  educated,  who 
have  far  less  influence  even  with  natives  of  their  own 
race  than  an  English  professor  of  political  economy 
has  with  our  ploughmen.  Among  other  races,  being 
for  the  most  part  of  weak  and  unwarlike  stocks,  they 
command  only  contempt. 

There  is  no  danger  of  a  second  Mutiny  in  India, 
unless  the  British  dominion  should  ever  be  seriously 
challenged.  But  if  there  should  ever  come  a  great 
and  doubtful  war  in  the  north — what  then?  If 
Russia  came  against  us  on  the  frontier,  it  is  certain 
she  would  also  do  her  utmost  to  stir  up  risings  behind 
us.  Even  so,  in  our  own  provinces  good  officers, 
with  police  and  volunteers,  would  probably  keep  their 
districts  together.  The  critical  point  would  be  the 
rajah.  Nearly  all  native  princes  to-day  are  irreproach- 
ably loyal;  but  you  cannot  guarantee  a  hereditary 
house  against  a  disloyal  son  in  the  moment  of  supreme 
temptation.  With  this  in  mind,  many  men  wag  their 
heads  doubtfully  about  the  new  institution  of  Imperial 
Service  troops.  There  are  over  20,000  of  these — 
— armed,  drilled,  and  equipped  nearly  as  well  as  our 
own  native  regiments.  Doubtless  these  forces,  which 
owe  no  direct  allegiance  to  the  Empress,  should  not 
recklessly  be  created  or  increased.  But  nothing  great 
can  be  done  without  taking  risks.  The  object  of 
these  forces  is  partly  to  increase  the  military  strength 
of  India,  partly  to  give  legitimate  and  congenial  em- 
ployment to  the  rulers  and  gentlemen  of  the  native 

333 


The  Army  and  Mutiny 

states.  If  we  fail  in  our  dealings  with  these,  the  Im- 
perial Service  troops  are  a  weakness  ;  if  we  succeed, 
they  are  an  accession  of  strength. 

If  our  aim  were  to  avoid  risks,  we  should  not  be  in 
India  at  all.  Being  there,  our  boldest  policy  is  also 
our  safest.  To  weaken  our  native  forces  through 
distrust  of  their  loyalty  is  only  to  invite  the  attack  we 
fear.  To  be  strong  against  attack  is  at  the  same  time 
to  ease  the  strain  on  loyalty. 


334 


XXXVII 
THE  IMPERIAL  BABU 

"  BUT  you  English  have  the  best  of  everything  in 
India,"  said  the  Brahman;  "you  can  surely  afford  to 
be  generous." 

"  O,  have  we  ?  "  says  I.  "  Now  what,  for  in- 
stance, have  we  the  best  of?  Money,  pleasure, 
leisure,  satisfaction  in  work  ?  " 

He  smiled  the  wonderful  Indian  smile,  inscrutable 
and  irresistible,  winning  and  fawning  at  the  same 
time.  "  You  have,"  he  said,  "  the  consciousness  of 
being  the  dominant  race." 

That  is  exactly  what  we  have;  and  that  is  all  we 
have.  It  is  a  very  fine  and  enviable  thing  to  own. 
And  yet  even  that  is  half-fallacious ;  for  the  real  ruler 
of  India  is  the  babu. 

India  is  governed  by  natives  of  India.  The  last 
word,  doubtless,  is  with  us — with  the  Secretary  of 
State  and  the  Viceroy  and  Atkins  in  his  grey  flannel 
shirt.  But  then  the  last  word  in  government  is  hardly 
ever  said.  The  first  word  and  the  second  and  the 
third  are  those  that  make  the  difference  to  the  subject. 
The  minor,  everyday  machinery  of  rule  is  the 
335 


The  Imperial  Babu 

native's.  Nearly  all  the  lesser  magistrates  are  natives, 
and  a  large  proportion  of  the  judges.  In  the  execu- 
tive part  of  Government — revenue-assessment  and 
collection,  engineering  and  public  works,  the  medical 
services,  the  forest  department,  the  salt  department — 
there  are  a  handful  of  white  men  to  order  and  a  host 
of  brown  ones,  half-supervised,  to  execute.  At  the 
centres  of  Government — the  provincial  capitals,  and 
Calcutta  or  Simla  itself — where  you  would  expect  to 
find  British  influence  at  its  strongest,  the  babu  clerks  in 
the  Government  offices  exert  a  veiled  but  paramount 
influence.  And  the  very  heads  of  everything — Lieu- 
tenant-Governors  and  sometimes  very  Viceroys — un- 
influenced by  clerks,  bow  before  the  prattling  philip- 
pics of  the  native  press.  Theoretically  India  is  help- 
lessly dominated  by  Britons  :  actually  native  influence 
is  all  but  supreme. 

You  will  call  these  assertions  preposterous,  and  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  call  leading  officials  of  the  Indian 
Government  to  corroborate  them.  The  cause  of  the 
British  in  India  is  not  a  popular  one,  either  there  or 
here ;  yet  there  is  hardly  a  Briton  of  experience  in 
India,  if  I  may  judge  by  samples,  who  will  not  admit 
privately  that  these  assertions  are  mainly  true.  To 
the  stranger  from  England  it  is  far  the  most  striking 
and  disquieting  discovery  that  India  has  to  offer.  The 
cry  of  recent  years  has  been  for  more  Indian  influence 
in  India's  Government;  then  you  find  Englishmen 
admitting  the  existence  of  abuses,  incompetence, 

336 


The  Imperial  Babu 

corruption  in  the  services  they  are  supposed  to  direct, 
lamenting  them,  breaking  their  hearts  over  them,  but 
utterly  powerless  to  purge  them  away.  You  find  men 
giving  orders  which  they  all  but  know  will  not  be  ex- 
ecuted, because  it  is  physically  impossible  to  go  them- 
selves and  watch  over  their  execution.  Higher  up 
you  find  men  longing  to  get  work  done  for  India's 
benefit,  but  clogged  and  strangled  by  meshes  of  rou- 
tine, which  exist  solely  to  furnish  salaries  for  more 
and  more  brothers  and  nephews  of  native  clerks. 
You  find  a  Lieutenant-Governor  refusing  to  take 
measures  against  plague  solely  from  fear  of  abuse  in 
the  native  press.  Then  you  realise  that  it  is  not  more 
native  influence  that  is  wanted  in  India,  but  less — not 
fewer  Britons  in  the  services,  but  more. 

The  white  man's  say  becomes  daily  less,  the  black 
man's  daily  more.  The  reasons  are  not  on  the  sur- 
face, but,  when  stated,  they  make  things  clear  enough. 
The  first,  perhaps  the  most  potent,  is  the  new  swift- 
ness of  communication  between  England  and  India. 
You  would  expect  that  to  increase  English  influence, 
but  in  India  you  soon  grow  inured  to  paradoxes.  The 
nearer  India  comes  to  England  the  less  will  English- 
men have  to  do  with  it.  When  Warren  Hastings 
went  out  in  1750,  the  voyage  to  Calcutta  lasted  from 
January  till  October.  Hastings,  once  in  India,  had 
to  make  India  his  home,  his  career,  his  life.  It  was 
worth  his  while  to  study  the  ways  of  the  natives  and 
to  write  Persian  verses.  At  this  time  there  were  none 

337 


The  Imperial  Babu 

of  the  conveniences — the  ice,  the  railways,  the  hill- 
stations — which  make  life  in  India  tolerable  to  white 
women ;  most  of  the  Company's  servants  lived  with 
native  mistresses  and  some  married  native  wives.  It 
was  not  edifying,  but  it  made  for  comprehension  of 
the  East.  Money  was  plentiful,  Europe  and  retire- 
ment were  far  away ;  the  Company's  servants  spent 
their  income  in  India  and  lived  in  style.  Old  natives 
will  still  tell  you  of  residents  and  collectors  who  kept 
more  elephants  than  now  men  keep  polo-ponies. 
Above  all,  the  white  man  in  the  Company's  days  was 
something  apart  and  mysterious  and  worshipful  in 
native  eyes.  No  man  knew  whence  he  came  or 
whither  he  went;  no  man  pretended  to  know  his 
ways.  He  was  a  strange  and  superior  being — all  but 
a  god. 

Now  London  is  sixteen  days  from  Calcutta.  The 
modern  civilian  takes  three  months'  leave  every  third 
year  and  a  year's  furlough  every  ten  or  so.  He  is 
married  to  a  white  wife,  and  his  white  children  are  at 
home ;  he  looks  forward  to  reuniting  his  family  when 
he  gets  his  pension,  and  then — he  will  be  but  forty — 
to  letters  or  politics — a  new  career.  For  this  and  his 
periodical  flights  homeward  he  saves  his  money,  so 
that  the  native  is  less  impressed  by  the  white  man's 
magnificence.  The  British  merchant  and  barrister 
expect  an  even  shorter  period  of  exile — a  competence 
in  five  or  ten  years,  and  then  the  beginning  of  their 
real  work  at  home.  Nowadays  the  great  Indian  mer- 

338 


The  Imperial  Babu 

chant  lives  in  London ;  in  Bombay  and  Calcutta  are 
only  salaried  partners  and  managing  clerks;  Parsis 
are  far  richer  and  more  influential  than  these.  In- 
stead of  a  man's  life,  India  has  become  an  apprentice- 
ship, a  string  of  necessary,  evil  interludes  between 
youth,  leave,  furlough,  and  maturity.  You  might 
imagine  a  burglar  so  regarding  the  intervals  which  the 
exigencies  of  his  profession  compel  him  to  spend  in 
Dartmoor. 

The  consequences  of  the  new  order  are  inevitable 
and  pernicious.  The  Anglo-Indian  does  not  shirk  his 
work ;  to  say  so  for  a  moment  would  be  the  grossest 
slander.  No  class  of  men  in  the  world  toil  more 
heroically,  more  disinterestedly,  more  disdainfully  of 
adverse  conditions.  But  while  his  zeal  does  not  flag, 
his  knowledge  fails  to  keep  pace  with  it.  Partly  this 
is  due  to  the  dislocation  of  his  work  by  frequent 
returns  to  England ;  partly,  and  more,  to  the  fatal 
tendency  of  the  Indian  departments  towards  red-tape 
and  writing.  The  officer  knows  well  enough  that  the 
more  time  he  spends  at  his  writing-table  the  less 
efficient  he  will  be  among  the  men  he  has  to  rule. 
He  knows  that  if  ever  our  rule  were  in  danger,  the 
man  who  kept  his  district  together  would  be  the  man 
who  knew  his  subordinates  and  whom  his  people 
knew;  but  he  also  knows  that  his  future  career 
depends  far  more  on  his  reports  than  on  his  personal 
influence.  Can  you  wonder  that  he  devotes  himself 
to  what  pays  him  best  ?  He  would  be  more  than 

339 


The  Imperial  Babu 

human  if  he  did  not.  Being  only  human,  he  has  to 
pay  for  his  devotion  to  forms  and  minutes  in  loss 
elsewhere.  The  new  generation  of  Anglo-Indians  is 
deplorably  ignorant  of  the  native  languages ;  after  a 
dozen  years'  service  the  average  civil  servant  can 
hardly  talk  to  a  cultivator  or  read  a  village  register. 
Of  the  life,  character,  and  habits  of  thought  of  the 
peasantry — always  concealed  by  Orientals  from  those 
in  authority  over  them — the  knowledge  grows  more 
and  more  extinct  year  by  year.  Statistics  accumu- 
late and  knowledge  decays.  The  longer  we  rule  over 
India  the  less  we  know  of  it. 

Summarily,  our  knowledge  of  the  natives  grows  less 
and  less,  as  the  natives'  knowledge  of  us  grows  more 
and  more.  For  while  the  very  march  of  civilisation 
seems  to  conspire  with  fate  against  our  comprehen- 
sion of  the  masses  of  the  people,  on  the  other  side  is 
the  babu,  each  day  more  superficially  fitted  and  more 
greedily  willing  to  serve  as  middleman  between  the 
ruling  race  and  the  uneducated  mass.  In  old  days 
few  natives  knew  English  ;  now  there  is  a  yearly 
swarm  of  graduates  only  too  eager  to  make  things 
easy  for  the  European  official.  In  Madras,  where  the 
native  tongues  are  especially  difficult  and  English 
education  especially  diffused,  there  is  hardly  an  official 
who  can  talk  freely  with  the  uneducated :  the  babu 
interpreter  is  master  of  the  situation.  Other  prov- 
inces are  going  the  same  way.  It  is  so  easy  to  ask 
your  clerk,  "  What  does  he  say  ?  " — and  so  easy  for 
340 


The  Imperial  Babu 

the  clerk  to  earn  a  couple  of  rupees  by  putting  things 
before  the  Presence  in  the  right  way. 

The  divinity  that  hedges  a  sahib  is  slowly  breaking 
down.  There  are  so  many  sahibs  nowadays  that  they 
have  ceased  to  be  wonderful.  And  they  are  not  all 
like  the  old  sahibs :  there  are  little  sahibs,  country- 
bred  sahibs,  hardly  better  than  Eurasians,  globe-trot- 
ting sahibs,  whom  a  child  can  deceive,  and  who  let 
you  come  into  their  presence  with  shod  feet.  And 
then  remember  the  other  side — that  the  babu  has  often 
been  to  England.  The  "  Europe-returned,"  as  they 
proudly  call  themselves,  are  usually  of  the  inferior 
native  races,  and  are  of  small  account  even  among 
them.  Yet  they  have  been  received  in  London  or 
Oxford  or  Cambridge  as  equals — sometimes,  on  the 
strength  of  bold  and  undetected  claims  to  social  im- 
portance in  India,  almost  as  superiors.  They  have 
lost  all  respect  for  the  European  as  a  master,  and  ac- 
quired no  affection  for  him  as  a  friend.  Every  young 
Hindu  who  returns  from  England  is  a  fresh  stumbling- 
block  to  government  in  the  interests  of  the  Indian 
people. 

For  the  babu  does  not  govern  for  the  people,  whom 
he  despises  from  the  height  of  his  intelligence,  and 
whom  it  is  his  inherited  instinct  to  fleece,  but  for  him- 
self, his  relatives,  and  his  class.  To  him  mainly — 
helped  by  British  pedantry — India  owes  the  impene- 
trable buffer  of  files  and  dockets  and  returns  which 
interposes  itself  between  the  white  ruler  and  the  brown 

341 


The  Imperial  Babu 

millions  of  the  ruled.  The  first  impulse  of  the  native 
who  gets  an  appointment  is  to  get  some  of  the  swarm 
of  brothers  and  cousins  who  live  in  the  same  house 
with  him  to  fatten  under  his  shadow.  He  cares  noth- 
ing for  efficient  work — why  should  he  ? — but  he  cares 
very  much  for  his  family.  Instead  of  making  less 
work,  he  strives  always  to  make  more.  He  sits  a 
lifetime  in  the  office  and  knows  its  working  as  do 
few  of  his  fleeting  European  superiors.  Everything — 
in  the  public  offices,  the  army,  the  railway  offices,  it 
is  all  the  same — must  be  copied  out  in  triplicate,  in 
quadruplicate,  in  quintuplicate.  If  a  new  and  ener- 
getic European  attempts  to  cut  away  the  hamper, 
"  We  cannot  do  this,"  he  murmurs,  "  under  rule 
12345,  section  67890."  The  Briton  sighs,  but  life, 
he  thinks,  is  not  long  enough  to  try  to  move  the  limpet 
babu.  But  the  babu,  when  he  likes,  can  easily  make 
out  a  case  for  the  addition  of  sub-sections  67890  #,  £, 

c z — and  there   is  more  work  for  his  nephews. 

"  Your  accounts  have  come  up  quite  correct,"  wrote 
the  leading  clerk  at  Calcutta  to  the  leading  clerk  in  a 
provincial  government;  "  do  not  let  this  occur  again." 
So  the  white  man  in  the  district  sits  at  his  desk 
writing  papers  which  babus  will  docket  and  nobody 
will  read;  and,  outside,  his  underlings  oppress  the 
poor. 


342 


XXXVIII 
THE  LAND  OF  IRONIES 

INDIA  is  amazing  and  stupefying  at  the  first  glance, 
and  amazing  and  stupefying  it  remains  to  the  last. 
The  long  panorama  ends  as  it  began  with  the  dazed 
murmur,  "A  new  world." 

The  habit  of  travel  extinguishes  wonder,  and  begets 
a  tranquil  if  curious  acceptance  of  new  surroundings. 
The  professional  traveller  takes  it  as  part  of  his  daily 
life  that  he  should  wake  up  among  habits,  climate, 
growths,  languages,  and  people  which  he  never  saw 
before.  He  knew  they  existed,  and  they  are  not  much 
different  from  what  he  had  pictured  them. 

But  India  disquiets  the  most  sodden  traveller.  That 
it  is  vast  and  complex  is  nothing ;  but  with  its  vast- 
ness  and  complexity  it  yet  remains  utterly  alien  to 
everything  else.  You  have  no  foothold  whence  to 
advance  upon  a  closer  comprehension.  Shut  by  its 
mountains  into  a  corner  of  the  earth,  it  has  ever  pur- 
sued its  own  mysterious  ends  ;  the  breeds  of  men  who 
broke  through  the  passes  it  absorbed  and  quietly  assim- 
ilated to  itself.  Stranger  breeds  of  men  have  come 
over  the  sea;  India  has  taken  no  heed  of  them.  India 
is  India,  and  ignores  the  world. 

343 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

Other  countries  have  a  measure  of  consistency  : 
they  are  either  wholly  civilised  or  wholly  barbarous, 
affect  splendour  or  accept  squalor.  India  sees  stateli- 
ness  in  the  filthiest  faded  silk  so  it  be  shot  with  pearls ; 
and  a  trained  mechanician  burns  a  man  alive  to  pro- 
pitiate a  defective  steam-engine.  Other  countries  hold 
a  degree  of  privacy  essential  to  self-respect  ;  India  has 
deliberately,  by  caste-brotherhood,  cut  privacy  out  of 
its  existence.  Other  countries  aim  at  doing ;  India's 
idol  is  inaction.  Islam  influenced  other  lands  of  the 
East  j  India  influenced  Islam.  The  learning  and  the 
letters  of  the  West  were  sluiced  into  India  in  one 
sudden  stream ;  after  a  moment's  astonishment  India 
accepted  them,  and  studied  them  with  prodigious  facil- 
ity, but  without  a  spark  of  interest  or  an  effort  to- 
wards appreciation.  To  the  West,  the  ordinary  na- 
tive of  India  is  almost  inhuman.  The  West  can 
admire  the  strength  of  his  affections  within  his  family, 
and  detest  his  cold-blooded  malignity  outside  it;  but 
for  the  rest  he  appears  now  unearthly  wise,  now  child- 
ishly inane.  The  grave  Brahman  will  unreel  you 
systems  of  metaphysics  compared  with  which  the 
"  Criticism  of  Pure  Reason  "  is  simple  and  concrete  ; 
then  he  will  depart  and  make  his  offering  to  a  three- 
headed  goddess  smeared  with  grease  and  red  paint. 
The  very  ryot  seems  an  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of 
husbandry,  a  part  of  nature,  a  primeval  Pan — and  he 
will  carelessly  beggar  his  family  for  three  generations 
because  it  is  the  custom  to  waste  money  on  funeral 
344 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

feasts.  Two  students  attend  a  college  :  one  becomes 
senior  wrangler,  and  the  other  is  hanged  for  assassi- 
nating a  policeman. 

Into  this  maze  of  contradictions,  to  rule  this  blend 
of  good  and  evil,  steps  Britain.  And  not  content 
with  ruling  him — which  is  easy,  for  he  accepts  any 
master  that  comes — we  have  set  ourselves  to  raise 
him,  as  we  put  it.  Which  means  to  uncreate  him,  to 
disestablish  what  has  grown  together  from  the  birth  of 
time,  and  to  create  him  anew  in  the  image  of  men 
whom  he  considers  mad.  This  is  surely  the  most 
audacious,  the  most  heroic,  the  most  lunatic  enterprise 
to  which  a  nation  ever  set  its  hand. 

How,  now,  have  we  succeeded  ?  Let  it  be  said 
first  that  we  have  deserved  success.  If  any  enter- 
prise in  the  world's  history  has  deserved  success,  it  is 
the  British  empire  in  India.  Our  connection  with 
the  country  began  as  most  legitimate  and  mutually 
beneficent  commerce.  It  developed  into  conquest — 
not  through  any  lust  of  dominion,  but  almost  acci- 
dentally, and  certainly  against  our  will;  it  was  the 
inevitable  consequence  of  the  weakness  and  dissen- 
sions of  the  Indian  races  themselves.  Having  ac- 
quired the  empire,  we  have  administered  it  with  a 
single-minded  devotion  to  the  interests  of  its  own 
people  which  has  never  had  a  parallel.  We  make 
India  pay  its  own  way,  but  beyond  that  Britain  gets 
not  a  penny  from  it  for  any  public  purpose.  We 
have  imposed  duties  against  our  own  products ;  in  a 
345 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

hundred  ways  we  refuse  to  facilitate  the  business  of 
our  own  countrymen. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  India  offers  desirable 
careers  for  our  superfluous  youth.  This  may  be  true 
spiritually.  A  nation  like  ours  does  well  to  offer  ad- 
ventures to  its  sons.  Yet  even  spiritually  we  get 
nothing  indispensable  from  India :  the  empire  has 
half-a-dozen  spheres  where  hardships  and  dangers  can 
be  had  on  terms  as  favourable  as  any  that  India  offers. 
Materially,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  every  officer  in 
our  service,  except  less  than  a  thousand  civil  servants, 
is  heavily  underpaid.  If  any  nation  ever  deserved  the 
reward  of  good  work  done  for  its  own  sake,  it  is 
Britain  in  India. 

And  on  this  comes  in  the  hideous,  if  most  inevi- 
table, irony  that  the  reward  of  our  work  is  largely  fail- 
ure, and  the  thanks  for  our  unselfishness  mainly  un- 
popularity. You  might  almost  imagine  there  was  a 
curse  on  British  India,  which  ever  turns  good  en- 
deavours into  bad  results.  The  great  gifts  which  we 
are  supposed  to  have  given  India  are  justice  and  in- 
ternal peace — and  each  has  turned  to  her  distress. 
The  one  is  driving  her  peasantry  off  the  land,  the 
other  is  preventing  an  effete  race  from  the  renovation 
brought  in  by  alien  conquerors. 

When  we  say  we  have  given  justice,  we  only  mean 

that  we  have  offered  it — tried  to  force  it  upon  peoples 

which   dislike   and   refuse  it.     What  we  have  really 

given  is  a  handful  of  incorruptible  judges,  whose  ex- 

346 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

perience  enables  them  to  strike  a  rough  balance  be- 
tween scales  piled  up  with  perjury  on  either  side. 
Often  and  often  a  litigant  comes  to  the  European 
judge  and  says,  "You  were  wrong  to  give  that  case 
against  me,  Sahib.  The  other  side  were  all  lying,  and 
we — well,  of  course,  we  lied  too;  but  the  truth  was 
such  and  such,  and  we  were  right.  But  of  course 
you  could  not  tell  which  was  lying  most,  and  we 
knew  you  did  your  best  to  decide  rightly,  only  you 
were  wrong."  The  litigant  believes  absolutely  in 
the  honesty  of  the  sahib,  and  accepts  it  as  part  of  his 
inexplicable  idiosyncrasy ;  he  does  not  seek  to  emu- 
late it.  As  for  the  great  mass  of  native  judges,  sub- 
ordinate and  supreme,  who  do  the  greater  part  of  the 
ordinary  business  of  justice,  some  are  incorruptible : 
there  were  incorruptibles  in  India  before  we  came. 
But  the  mass  of  them,  as  of  the  other  native  officials, 
are  just  as  they  ever  were,  and,  with  the  whole  coun- 
try leagued  to  screen  them,  it  is  impossible  that  they 
shall  be  otherwise. 

The  difference  under  our  rule  is  not  so  much  that 
justice  is  done  as  that  the  law  is  enforced.  The  rich 
man  benefits  under  this,  for  a  Rajah's  government 
would  seldom  let  a  rich  man  get  out  of  a  lawsuit  with 
a  full  pocket  j  but  the  poor  man  suffers  in  the  same 
proportion.  In  the  old  days  the  poor  debtor  was  pro- 
tected by  the  rapacity  of  judges  and  Government. 
The  usurer  dared  not  go  before  the  Rajah  for  leave  to 
attach  the  peasant's  stock  and  crops  and  land.  "  Aha," 

347 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

his  Majesty  would  say,  "  you  must  have  been  making 
money,  my  friend.  We  must  look  into  this."  But 
in  a  British  court  the  sacred  contract  must  be  upheld, 
and  the  ryot  is  ruined. 

The  irony  of  peace  is  as  bitter.  Peace  is  sometimes 
a  blessing,  no  doubt ;  but  then  so  sometimes  is  war. 
War  was  the  salt  that  kept  India  from  decay.  It 
caused  horrible  suffering,  presumably,  though  in  India 
not  perhaps  much  more  than  peace ;  at  least  it  con- 
spired with  famine  and  pestilence  to  keep  the  popula- 
tion down.  All  three  have  been  greatly  mitigated 
under  our  rule,  and  now  a  prodigiously  increasing 
multitude  is  a  dead  weight  on  the  general  prosperity 
of  native  India  and  a  night-mare  to  her  foreseeing 
statesmen.  But  that  is  not  the  only,  nor  the  direst, 
curse  of  peace.  India  is  effete.  It  strikes  you  as 
very,  very  old — burned  out,  sapless,  tired.  Its  peo- 
ples, for  the  most  part,  are  small,  languid,  effeminate. 
Its  policies,  arts,  industries,  social  systems  stagnate, 
and  the  artificial  shackles  of  caste  bind  down  their 
native  feebleness  to  a  completer  sterility.  Now  the 
old  wars  periodically  refreshed  this  effeteness  with 
strains  of  more  vigorous  blood.  Most  of  the  greatest 
names  of  Indian  history,  the  wisest  policies,  the 
bravest  armies,  the  noblest  art,  belong  to  races  of  new- 
comers. It  seems  that  the  soil  and  climate  of  India 
need  but  three  or  four  generations  to  sap  the  vitality 
of  the  most  powerful  breed. 

Now  that  Britain  keeps  the  peace  in  the  plains  and 
348 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

guards  the  passes  of  the  hills,  there  will  come  in  no 
invaders  to  renew  the  energies  of  the  weakened 
stocks.  With  each  generation  of  firm  and  just  rule 
the  ill  effects  will  percolate  deeper  and  deeper.  Fail- 
ing some  new  process  of  quickening,  the  weary 
races  of  India  must  inevitably  dwine  and  die  of  sheer 
good  government. 

Whence  is  the  new  life  to  come  ?  From  us  ?  The 
gulf  between  Briton  and  native  yawns  no  less  deep 
to-day — perhaps  deeper — than  when  the  first  English- 
men set  up  their  factory  at  Surat.  Our  very  virtues 
have  increased  the  gap  that  was  in  any  case  inevitable 
between  temperaments  so  opposite  as  Britain's  and 
India's.  Justice  India  can  do  without ;  for  peace  she 
does  not  thank  us.  This,  too,  will  grow  worse  and 
worse  with  time,  instead  of  better.  The  men  who 
knew  the  sufferings  of  intestine  war  are  long  since 
dead ;  their  grandsons,  not  knowing  wherefrom  we 
have  delivered  them,  are  naturally  not  grateful  for 
deliverance.  Even  the  best  educated  natives  are  very 
ignorant  of  Indian  history ;  they  simply  do  not  know 
from  what  we  have  saved  them.  Even  if  they  did, 
things  would  be  little  better ;  for,  although  it  is  a  silly 
fiction  that  no  native  of  India  can  be  grateful,  po- 
litical and  national  gratitude  is  a  watery  feeling  at  the 
best. 

What  else  have  we  to  count  on  for  the  regener- 
ation of  India  ?  Christianity  ?  It  has  made  few 
converts  and  little  enough  improvement  in  the  few; 

349 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

is  it  not  too  exotic  a  religion  to  thrive  in  Indian  soil  ? 
Actual  fusion  of  blood  has  done  as  little.  It  is  usual 
to  sneer  at  the  Eurasian  as  combining  the  vices  of 
both  parents,  but  this  appears  to  be  a  slander.  In 
the  days  when  generals  married  begums  Eurasians 
counted  many  men  of  ability  and  character;  that  you 
hear  of  few  now  is  more  likely  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  modern  breed  is  almost  necessarily  of  a  low  type 
on  both  sides.  As  it  is,  Eurasians  fill  a  place  most 
creditably  which  nobody  else  could  fill.  Industrially, 
as  overseers,  foremen,  railway-guards,  and  the  like, 
they  are  an  almost  indispensable  link  between  white 
and  native.  But  to  expect  them  to  form  a  link  in 
any  deeper  sense,  even  though  a  Viceroy  expresses 
the  hope,  is  over-sanguine.  It  may  be  unjust,  but 
there  remains  a  prejudice  against  them  among  white 
and  native  alike. 

And  after  all,  what  link  could  bind  together  such 
opposites  ?  Language  and  education  and  assimilation 
of  manners  are  powerless  to  bridge  so  radical  a  con- 
tradiction. What  close  intercourse  can  you  hope  for, 
when  you  may  not  even  speak  of  your  native  friend's 
wife  ?  Native  men  are  antipathetic  to  European 
women ;  native  women  must  not  be  so  much  as  seen 
by  European  men.  A  clever  and  agreeable  Brahman 
told  me  that  he  would  not  let  even  his  own  brother 
see  his  wife.  I  do  know  one  white  man  who  did 
once  see  his  native  friend's  wife.  "  This  is  my 
study,"  said  he ;  "  that  " — as  a  swathed  figure  shuf- 
350 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

fled  silently  and  rapidly  across  the  room  from  door  to 
door — "  is  my  wife ;  that  is  the  presentation  clock 
from  my  pupils  at  the  college."  And  he  was  an  ex- 
ceptionally broad-minded  man.  Those  who  know 
and  like  the  natives  best  tell  you  that  you  can  never 
speak  with  the  best-known  and  best-liked  of  them 
for  any  time  without  a  constraint  on  both  sides  which 
forbids  intimacy.  "  Of  all  Orientals,"  says  the  one 
Englishman  who  has  come  nearest  to  knowing  them,1 
"  the  most  antipathetical  companion  to  an  English- 
man is,  I  believe,  an  East  Indian.  .  .  .  Even 
the  experiment  of  associating  with  them  is  almost  too 
hard  to  bear.  ...  I  am  convinced  that  the  na- 
tives of  India  cannot  respect  a  European  who  mixes 
with  them  familiarly."  Nature  seems  to  have  raised 
an  unscalable  barrier  between  West  and  East.  It  has 
lattices  for  mutual  liking,  for  mutual  respect ;  but 
true  community  of  mind  it  shuts  off  inexorably. 

Every  loophole  of  optimism  seems  closed — except 
one.  When  all  is  said  and  done,  we  have  only  been 
in  India  a  little  over  a  hundred  years — in  many  parts 
of  it  hardly  fifty.  To  immemorial  India  that  is  like 
half  an  hour;  and  when  we  first  went  to  India  we 
were,  after  all,  not  very  much  less  corrupt — whether 
there  or  at  home — than  India  is  to-day.  To  move 
the  East  is  a  matter  of  centuries ;  and  yet  it  moves. 
Often  it  seems  that  to  mean  the  right  thing  only 
ends  in  doing  the  wrong  one.  We  have  made,  and 
1  Sir  Richard  Burton. 
351 


The  Land  of  Ironies 

are  making,  abundant  mistakes  :  in  administration  and 
education  we  seem  to  be  running  further  and  further 
off  the  right  lines.  But  in  the  East  it  is  especially 
fatal  to  say  "  Too  late  "  too  soon.  We  have  done 
much  good  material  work ;  everywhere  we  have  made 
two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  there  was  but  one. 
We  have  been  honest  and  we  have  done  our  best. 
Whatever  we  have  done  or  left  undone,  we  have  im- 
ported into  public  affairs  a  new  morality.  It  may 
not  yet  have  been  widely  imitated,  but  that  is  rather 
a  reason  for  hope  than  despair.  No  morality  worth 
having  was  ever  adopted  from  the  Sinai  of  a  con- 
queror. What  there  is  in  native  India  of  public 
spirit,  of  unswerving  public  integrity,  of  unsparing 
devotion  to  public  duty,  we  may  set  down  to  our 
credit ;  and  we  may  say  that  if  it  grows  slowly  it  is 
the  likelier  to  live  long.  It  is  far  too  early  to  despair 
of  India  yet.  It  is  not  only  the  land  of  ironies,  it  is 
also  the  land  of  patience. 


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